Lovers In The Sun

Part 1

I was holding his hand. But he wasn't holding mine. His was limp, hanging beside his hunched body. Mine was desperate, clinging onto his balled fist like I'd float away if I didn't.

There were times in the summer where we'd sit together, the sun bathing us in dappled light as we perched ourselves among the wild flowers. The wind was light and gentle across our skin.

The wind is light now. Blowing his fringe across his face the way it did those summer days. I used to push it out of his eyes and he'd always thank me with a kiss.

I told I loved him under that tree on that summer day. And I said it many times after. I still say it; every day. But he doesn't say it back.

The sky is clear today, the grass green and swaying in the breeze. The flowers are nestled and hugging the stone. Their vibrancy trying to fight against the grey. They look beautiful. He looks beautiful. But that stone doesn't. It's wrong here. Too sad for the beauty and happiness that we created and that we enjoyed here. Maybe that's why he decided to put the stone here. Maybe it was some joke he thought would be our last; our everlasting.

I always told him his jokes were terrible. But I laughed. God, I always laughed and he did too. We laughed together.

He doesn't laugh anymore. He doesn't smile. I think it's because of me, but lord how I wish it weren't. If he only knew how much I smile at him then maybe he'd smile back. But he never does.

I want to say I'm sorry. I'm not sure what for but it feels appropriate. Maybe he'd laugh and tell me not to be stupid. And I’d giggle and call him stupid.

That's what we were. Stupid.

He's not stupid anymore. I think I still am just a little. But the wrinkles on his hands and neck show wisdom and knowledge, nothing stupid. Despite what I hear him say about his complexion, his skin is still soft. At least it looks soft as it was. Every year I see him it gets rougher, but never completely loses it taut pull around his cheeks and forehead.

Every year he comes back a little more hunched. A little more weary. I don't know why. He was exhausted this year. This spot wasn't easy to get too when we were young and now he's starting to feel the climb in more than just his knees. I don't think he'll visit next year.

But this year he brings gardenias, last year was primroses. He's never brought gardenias before. But they look beautiful. The bouquet is all white, gentle and pure. Just as he is as he approaches and lays them down.

It's a kind gesture, one I was sure he'd grow out of. But he never did, not yet at least. The gardenias smell as beautiful as they look I would assume. I can't smell them, but I do see him sniff them as he lowers himself to his knees.

This is the part I hate. He always cries.

He called me the worst crier of us two, but I know better now, he's far worse than me.

I see the first tear run down his cheek as he places his hand over a patch of wild dandelions.

The second as he looks at the stone.

The rest come when he says what he says every single time,"I miss you."

I stopped crying after the first few years. I see him. I miss him, but I see him. He doesn't see me. Not anymore. And I can't imagine the ache he must feel.

He doesn't become hysterical like he used to. But God does he cry. And God do I want to join him. It's a tragic scene really. Him knelt before a stone, my stone, reading the epitaph and mourning. While I stand here in the dappled light among the wildflowers watching.

He used to say we were lovers in the sun as we sat on this hill in those summer days.

But we aren't lovers in the sun anymore, because I’m always in the shade.