Three years ago, Sandra met Mark on a dark trail in the mist of morning. Little did Sandra know who Mark was and what he was doing there at that time of day, all she knew was that his naked skin had the smell of timber wood and syrup, a scent she will never forget. Mark would go out for long walks every Sunday morning, preferably alone. And every time he returned, there would be fresh cuts and dark bruises. This became less of Sandra’s worry, for it is Mark’s active cycle she worries. Sun up, Mark is inside his shed. Sun down, Mark is nowhere to be seen. Sun rise, Mark emerges. On a rainy Sunday morning Sandra decided to follow mark on his long walk, it is still a mystery till today if Mark sensed her presence. Sandra followed Mark down to the edge of the cliff and watch him descend into the edges of death. Sandra peered over, Mark was ripping flowers from the side of the mountain— Sandra’s favorite the English Stonecrop. As Mark pulled himself to the top a rather non-familiar sound came around the corner of their ears, the call of a hawk. No moment was the same, no flower was every pretty, no scent was ever penetrating, no one was ever a better suitor. Sandra finally realized the culprit of Mark’s cuts and bruises, they were the mark of the hawk defending its territory, the English Stonecrop. However, Sandra never got a chance to tend to the fresh cuts and dark bruises for that Mark fell to his death that Sunday morning.
