Shapes in the Grass
Sophie L Macdonald
I am quitting you. My face is pressed to the grass, and I don’t know if I’m feeling cold from the ground or from the chill within my bones, pooling through my blood and numbing my face.
It was spring when you left me. The world outside was filled with the promise of colour and blossom, but inside me everything was grey and dead.
This is your house. This is the lawn where we lay in summer, hands entwined, making shapes out of clouds and drinking cheap white wine. This is the lawn that gets carpeted in orange and red leaves, which you never bothered to sweep away. I kicked them in the air on my way to your front door.
But you don’t live here any more.
The emptiness creeps from the boarded up windows. Maybe one day it will sell, and a family with children will move in. They’ll grind bike tracks into your grass, and crush rose petals into mud pies. It won’t be yours any more. But for now I lie here, as I’ve done for months, and the smell of grass becomes your scent, and if I close my eyes I can almost feel your hand in mine again.
Your neighbours think I’m crazy. I’d see them looking out at me, and they used to try to send me home. I think they felt sorry for me—they’d bring me a cup of tea, or tell me that I was young and that there were more fish in the sea. They told me life would go on. But it didn’t. I kept coming here—waiting for you to find me.
You left a note on my porch. All it said was that you were sorry, and that you loved me. You did love me, didn’t you?
People ask why I come here, rather than going to your grave to mourn. They don’t realise that I have never mourned you. I’ve been waiting for you.
I stand, and the imprint of my body remains in the grass. I will not come back here. I’m going somewhere new, where the ground will smell different and the clouds will just look like clouds. Now we are both shapes in the grass together, but that is all I leave here. Life will start again for me, once I stop waiting. This is my goodbye.
Image credit: Pixabay