We used to walk together under cloudless blue skies. Up the hill in the morning, we’d go to the mountain top admiring the myrtle in bloom. In the afternoons, we’d go down the path to the beach. I’d pick primroses on the way home.
Today, I walked the paths alone deriving little pleasure from them. The flowers are gone. A thick fog obscures everything. There is nothing to hold onto. The air is too thick and damp to hear my cries. The wind is biting, but I feel it push me forward, whispering in my ear, “You will go on.”
Written for the 94th Challenge of Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers: Week of 12-20 through 12-26-2016. This week’s photo provided by Joy Pixley. If you’d like to read more or submit your own click on the blue froggy below.
The Language of Flowers: (images courtesy of pixaby.com)