The morning was crisp outside; inside the building it was cool. The coloured windows poured their soft light over the congregation in rainbow like colours. I sat next to him, close. So close that I could feel the heat of his body, penetrating my clothes. Somewhere in the front of the building the organ started to play and a boy soprano started to sing. I felt him move next to me and his shoulder was like an invitation. I rested m head against his shoulder and closed my eyes. The music was so beautiful. “Oh, for the wings, for the wings of a dove, far aw…” Far away it went circling the vaulted ceilings far above, far away with the colours of the windows. The music, the service, the church went on forever, so far as a song could reach, to the end of beauty where it becomes sheer bliss.
After church we roamed the park, unaware of the time. Where the colours in the church were subdued and the music serene; the music of the fountains in the park, the birdsongs and the laughter of children bursted with life. The colours of the flowers and the park benches, kaleidoscoped the world in a display of exuberant life. It was our last day out that summer. The winter winds and frost came early, too early. Our park and its flowers were obliterated by the frost. No autumn, one day summer and the next day winter.
But winter was good once you were inside, home after work and weekends. Long cozy evenings, and he was always home when I got there. A tall strong man with a quiet smile and shouldering brown eyes. The nights were filled with passion while the light filtered yellow through the curtains. Endless nights of endless passion and happiness – an ivory tower, a place, a celebration of life for two.
Today, I picked the first roses and loosely put them in the white marble vase. Everything around was quiet. A wisteria purple-ish weighted down a wire fence, and the trees were all dressed in a garb of new green. I was standing there when out of nowhere a procession passed in the long narrow lane to the furthest end of the graveyard. The sun drew long shadows over the headstones – longer and longer until everything was dusk. A voice pulled me back to reality. “Excuse me, but I am closing the gates in 15 minutes.”
I turned around and started to walk towards the gates. Surely, it must be spring, but how can I be sure? The flowers, trees and weather all proclaim it, but it is as if something is missing, something of its splendor is amiss. It is Spring, but not real Spring, maybe next year. I walk through the gates and hear them shriek on their hinges as the keeper greets. “Good night, sir”
(480 Words)
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