The Garden

The opening chapter of a book I'm writing. Should be a new chapter each week. If not, well, sue me.

Dear Jonathan,

It is a heavy heart and a trembling hand that pens these words for you. To say that I was sorry could not even begin to describe what churns within me when I close my eyes and see her stood there. For if I had a million years, and a million ways to say it, words would still escape me. 

Do you remember the garden? The buzzing of the bumble-bees, that danced in between the untameable wild flowers? The clinking of our glasses as we sat laughing on that scratchy old blanket, basking in the warm glow of the summer solstice. I remember when the sun would die behind the velvet sheen of night and the fireflies would come, at first a simple speck of gold upon a shadowy background, a single pulse of beauty, followed by a cacophony of deep set golds, blood red orange, and yet, not a single one would outshine that simple sparkle in her eye when she first saw them.

Remember how she clapped and danced around on our blanket, her laughter reverberating across the echoing stretches of our perfect little garden? Such is a sight that I would long to see once more if not just for a day.  I am sure you would feel the same, would you not?

I feel that tears are beginning to well within my eyes, and my hand trembles ever more as I write. Could it not be simple for us to deal with loss?

Reviews

[Aries1984]

I'm in the process of writing something similar to my dad. Only it's gonna be a poem. I know what its like to write about those things you wish you could have said to someone but for some reason didn't. Maybe it was because you were afraid, or you didn't know just how he was going to take it and that this is the only way you can get your message across. Beautifully written.