Yours always,

There’s not much I remember about that summer other than the boy and the shoes. I remember the cicadas were particularly noisy the day I met him. I remember the white blouse with little flowers that I wore until it was stained with dirt and grass. And I remember the marigolds.

An ocean of butter yellow blossoms spreading across the meadow as far as the eye could see. And a boy with the same golden hair and sunkissed skin.

I had told my parents that I wanted to explore the place. We arrived much later than expected with the sun dipping its toes behind the mountains, casting an orange glow over every visible surface.

“Not today honey, it’s late. You can go first thing tomorrow.”

I didn’t meet him that day.

Breakfast was always a family affair in our home - fresh pancakes or toast with spread and of course a dark cup of coffee. I left before the coffee was even lukewarm and headed straight to the back gate that lead to the fields. My parents were writers who enjoyed nothing more than to be left alone to their devices; I was more than happy to oblige.

A narrow trail lead through the garden up to the hills rolled and pastures were picture perfect. In the warm morning sunlight I lay my back against the soft grass and closed my eyes. Nothing but the silence of the wind and drone of the cicada chorus.

A shadow fell over my face.

I opened one eye to see the smiling face of a boy about my age with straw coloured hair and freckles across his tanned nose. Without saying anything he took my hand, pulling me up and began walking towards the thicket of bushes that lined the edge of the field.

“Where are you taking me?”

He did not reply. Instead he simply laughed and dove head first into the bushes. I was still attached to his hand and fell forward from the motion landing on top of him. I could feel the steady pulse of his heartbeat through his chest. But that’s not what caught my attention. The bushes opened up to a cliff top that stretched out with a thick blanket of deep yellow flowers covering the whole grassy meadow.

“Marigolds.”

His voice was strangely melodic and I realised at this point I was still pressed up against him on the ground. My shirt had brown patches on the sleeves and I dusted myself off when I stood.

“How did you know this was here?”

“I live here.”

“You live in the marigolds?” I asked stupidly.

That got another laugh.

“No, I live down the road. But I suppose in a sense, yes, I live in the marigolds.”

We spent the day there amongst the blooming petals swaying languidly in the gentle breeze. The sound of cicadas muffled by the ocean waves frolicking below us.

“What’s your name?”

“Ladon.”

“I’m Ashley, but you can call me Ash.”

He nodded but didn’t say anything and we fell into a comfortable silence. I ran my eyes over his body where I could make out faded cuts and bruises beneath the shirt sleeves. I kept quiet. When the sun began to set he told me he had to leave and I told him that I would be back and he gave me a smile before disappearing back through the thicket. Only as he was leaving did I notice that he was barefoot.

The next day, I brought him shoes.

They were an old pair of white sneakers that had faded to a grey over time. I had since bought new ones, although couldn’t bring myself to throw them away. So I’d kept them here at the summer house. Ladon slipped them over his dirty feet and found that they were just slightly too big. He wore them anyway.

A week passed quickly and I would meet Ladon on the cliff top full of marigolds every morning. And we would spend the day together. Like clockwork the morning sunshine would peak over the horizon, spilling into the meadow and Ladon would be there throwing yellow petals over the cliff. It was as if he brought the sunrise in his faded brown shorts that barely covered his knees. And every evening, just before sunset, he would hurry home. I was scared to ask him, so I didn’t. But I would see the outlines of belt marks on the backs of his legs as he made his way back.

The first kiss was simple, and his lips were softer than I expected. He smelled earthy and fresh, like a garden in the rain. We held each other beneath the shade of an oak tree that let through just enough sun for it to tickle my face. His hand tracing the dappled pattern over my skin.

It never felt wrong, but we felt the need to hide these moments. Keep them tucked away from prying eyes. I remember that on the cliff, in the meadow of marigolds, we were happy.

But even Icarus’ happiness was fleeting.

One morning Ladon came to the field barefoot with fresh bruises painted painfully over his arms and legs. I asked him where the shoes were.

“My father thinks I stole them,” he said with something ominous bubbling deep within his silky voice.

“I see,” but I didn’t.

“I don’t think I can see you anymore, Ash,” he trembled as he spoke, gripping the sides of his shorts.

“Why? What’s happening?” My voice was just a touch too panicked and rose a little higher than intended.

“I think he knows.”

The gleam of mischief had disappeared from his amber eyes and his gaze now hid behind the locks of his flaxen hair. He held my hands in his, stroking the back of my palms with his thumbs. We said nothing in the ever present hum of the cicadas.

“I’ll wait for you. Every day. I’ll be here,” I whispered.

I’m not sure if he heard me; I could barely hear myself over the noise. He kissed me slowly as if he were savouring the memory. Then he was gone.

And I waited.

Every day.

But he never came back.

By the end of the summer, my parents had finished writing their books and I was two shades darker than before. On the last day I didn’t go to the marigolds and resigned myself to the back of the car. The drive home was shorter than expected.

I never told anyone about Ladon, or about that summer. And one warm day, in the middle of my first year of college, I decided to go back to the summer house.

Everything was exactly as we had left it, and I followed the path back up towards the meadow on the cliff. I ran my fingers gently over the golden petals that resembled him so much. I stood between the oak tree and the cliff edge, admiring the flowers when something caught my eye.

A pair of old white sneakers.

I hesitantly picked them up, they were the same ones I had given to Ladon all those years ago. They were unchanged, down to the scuff marks and discolouration. In the left shoe a crumpled envelope was wedged down into the toe cap. The letter was dated the last day of summer of that year.

Dear Ash,

Thank you for the shoes. I’m sorry I didn’t get to see you in the end. I wanted to, believe me. I thought about coming here every day. I only came today to return the shoes. But, perhaps it’s better this way. I don’t think I could have done it if I’d seen you. But in this moment, the rocks below look so inviting. I really tried, but my heart is crying and I think it wants to be set free. It hurts so much, all the time. This way, my father won’t be able to hurt me anymore and I can live forever in the marigolds. Ash, you were the first boy I’ve ever loved; and now you are the last. This was the best final summer I could have hoped for. Goodbye.

Yours always,

Ladon

I lay down in the field of marigolds with the letter pressed against my chest. I closed my eyes and pretended I was sleeping beside him, as my tears watered the flowers.