I sit, with my tea for one.
The sun heats my body, like your hands used to do. The breeze caresses my skin, settling on the back of my neck, almost like your breath.
The trees whisper the words you can no longer say, while the birds sing me their own songs of sorrow.
He walks towards me carrying a copy of the Sunday Times. I stand on grief heavy legs.
Your presence wraps itself around me, cloaking me in love, while the clouds overhead push forward.
It is time for me to do the same.
I smile and offer my hand. ‘I’m pleased to meet you.’
Written for Friday Fictioneers. A 100 word story inspired by a photo prompt. Read the other entries here.