December 16, 1810
The young woman stood in the cemetery, two long stemmed-roses - one white and one red - dangling from her gloved fingers. A solitary tear traced its way down her ashen cheek as she gazed at the weathered tombstone before her. Silently, she mouthed the name engraved there - James Hartwood. Her husband.
Slowly and carefully, as though the painful frailty of age already gripped her bones, she lowered herself onto her knees. The mud squelched noisily beneath her, soiling her fine black garments, but she paid it no heed. She had not the strength to stand.
It was five years ago, on the day - five years since she had received that terrible missive which had torn her heart from her chest and her world away from her. Time had no effect on the pain. December 16 came, without fail, each year - bringing with it a fresh wave of agonizing remembrance.
It seemed to her an eternity that she knelt there, her head bowed. She had naught to say - no words to give form to the bitter grief that seized her heart in its icy talons. Other women would now, perhaps, pray for their husband - but she knew hers did not need it. He was home, at last - free from pain, sorrow, and the terror of the wars. It was she alone who suffered.
Drawing a deep, shuddering breath, she laid the roses she held down upon the grave and slowly pulled herself to her feet. The fresh flowers lay amidst lifeless, wilted petals - all that remained of her previous visits to the cemetery.
Tears sparkled on her lashes as she spoke. "How much longer?" she whispered.
YOU ARE READING
Healed
Short Story"Drawing a deep, shuddering breath, she laid the roses she held down upon the grave. The fresh flowers lay amidst lifeless, wilted petals - all that remained of her previous visits to the cemetery. Tears sparkled on her lashes as she spoke. "H...
