If I could erase the memories of you from my head
I would
Years from now
I would be searching for this feeling
Unknown to me yet so familiar
Trying to figure out what is missing
From a new lovers embrace
But Darling,
Memories are not enough
You left an imprint on my body
I can not get rid of
Burned so deeply
No one else can put out the fire
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The Shrine in the Snow
The drive was slow, arduous. Blankets of snow piling on every surface where a mere 20 metres back down the road all you could see was the late blooms and the vibrant grass. They must know you are coming home. I turn to the urn in the front passenger seat, all golden and engraved. I don’t know why I decided to put a seatbelt around it but it feels right. Turning down the drive its the first time I’ve ever seen this house without the lights on. The dark oak exterior, the emaciated barn hovering ominously behind the house . The trees and garden once meticulously cared for are all thrown out in wild directions. Home. Opening the front door with as much enthusiasm as- well, as someone who desperately does not want to, I turn on the light switch and stare into darkness. Electricity, of course. Not of use for the dead. I place her on top of the fire place and try to light it, in a few attempts it blazes. I can thank her for that. The light from the fire illuminates the small lounge and I can now see the furniture, the table, lamps, everything but the clock on the mantelpiece covered in thin white sheets. Staring at the clock, it doesn’t seem to be disrupted by the lack of company. Still ticking away, giving a heartbeat to this desolate place. I remember giving it to her, the bright yellow eyes, the tawny wooden feathers, the circle in its centre chiming on and off when necessity arose. She loved it. The owl is looking tired, almost as tired as I am. Removing one of the sheets from the triple seater I lay down, thinking of nothing before nothing appears.
By Abigail Watson 2 years ago in Fiction
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