May Day

Jason feels the sun rising behind him, the heat crawling up the back of his calves and seeping under his shorts as he slows his stroll. From the path he can see the three arches that made up the May Day bridge from the river, creating a triplet of half closed eyes lidded with the freshly sprung leaves of the forest behind. They were awaking from a slumber much like he had, preparing for a new day, a fresh start, a long awaited renewal.

He notices hazy figures moving into position on the bridge as he grows closer, and as the morning wind hits him, with it the casual chatter and joy of fellow participants begin to seep into his ears. His watch is broken, had been for weeks, but he still checks to see if he was on time. Across the river, an older couple move towards the bridge in haste, aged fold up chairs bobbing up and down under their arms like ducks in the water, and he forces a smile, confident that in the past he would have felt a great warmth for such an image.

Jason approaches the steps up onto the bridge’s walkway.

He notices the difference in his shoes, one a dark crippled leather and the other a clean, black suede. Really Jason? You are such a silly twat, she would say.

He begins to climb, noticing the fifteen or so people already set up on the walkway. They face the peaking sun in the distance as the light cuts through the river mouth and lays softly upon them; at the far end is a barbecue, firing up and releasing cartwheels of smoke as the spring breeze catches the searing white coals.

I can’t believe we’re doing this.

Me neither, you know.

I’ve had such a fun night.

Me too.

He moves cautiously towards the centre of the bridge and finds himself walking a foot away from the sides, leaving a space for someone to join him. He can almost hear her hands scraping against the the stone brick, admiring it’s texture. Think about how many people would have been here, done this she would tell him, an affection kindled in her voice. As the memory sweeps over him, he stops directly under the first arch, steps through what was once her space and leans both arms against the edge.

Jason looks down at his reflection, the jagged tips of his overgrown beard growing distinct in the river water. He looks to his side a moment, remembering a time before, imagining her leaning against him, hooking and pulling herself close to claim his warmth. He closes his eyes and turns back towards his own face, fifteen feet below, drowning and hopeless.

Every single May Day.

Every one?

That’s why they are here. A barbecue on the bridge. A welcoming committee for the Summer.

Sounds like a tradition.

She smiles. It does.

Someone offers him a hello and he nods, a hint of recognition. Familiar faces, ten years of sharing sausage sandwiches, retelling stories and watching eyes burst with love, jealousy and glee as they relayed how they met and the sanctity of this bridge. He tries to recall names but realises how much he relied on her for that. He smells the charring of the pork as it falls onto the molten grill. He cannot stomach anything today.

They wonder where she is. He can see their confusion and discomfort in the way they squint at him as the slither of daylight licks their eyes. He seems to hear their thoughts, swirling around, questioning why the young, hopeful, vibrant couple has been diminished to this singular empty vessel.

Promise me you’ll still go.

I don’t know. I don’t think I can.

Promise me Jason.

…

Jason.

Okay. I promise.

Down the river, the sun seems to slowly drag itself into existence, as if it had been sat beside her hospital bed as well. It, too, had witnessed her final smile. It had watched the removal of the body from the room, the body it hadn’t been able to touch for the last two weeks. It felt the numbing pain of loss. It knew about the phone calls to be made, the clothes to be burnt, the sadness to be shared unequally across friends, family and strangers. It knew about the fractured life that somehow, impossibly, had to be lived afterwards.

But still it rose.