Weeping willows wallow and sway in the soft winter breeze. Freshly fallen snow lies upon the newly broken soil. Ruby flowers litter the open, sodden ground. Petals; bright, brilliant and smelling of fresh dew in the morning, flow across the weeping sky, becoming strewn across the crunchy earth; paling to fade beneath the falling ice crystals. The golden rays sparkle in the midwinter‘s dawn and open into a glorious array of bountiful colours.
A soft, twinkling bubble floats gently by. A tear shatters the innocence; a beautiful tear that is joined by rivers of other‘s.
“Daddy, why are you crying? Are you sad daddy? Was it something I did?”
The chic boy gazes longingly as his equally voguish father sheds another tear.
“I‘m sorry daddy; I will try not to do it again.”
The boy‘s black suit, neatly done and freshly pressed, is squashed as the boy embraces his father‘s waist. The polar flakes resting upon their suits are shunted off at the union.
“Daddy? Where‘s mommy, daddy?” the boy recedes slightly and gazes into his dad‘s reflective eyes, “You said this was for her daddy. Plus daddy, I know she could cheer you up; she always does when we sad or hurt. Where‘s mommy, daddy? She could pull funny faces and I could race her again daddy. Where‘s mommy, daddy?”
“Son,“ the boy‘s father says between gasps of tears,” she‘s gone away for the moment, but someday we‘ll see her again. Someday…”
“Where‘d she go daddy? Did she go to the funfair, daddy? She‘ll bring us back something won‘t she daddy?”
“No, my son, she‘s not coming back. We‘ll have to go visit her.”
“Can we go on those metal birds please daddy? They look like so much fun daddy! I can‘t wait daddy! Then we can all be together again daddy!” The boy‘s innocent beam is big, a stark contrast to the somber expressions gathered around; they are ignored.
“Just me, you, mommy, and Simon right daddy?”
“Yes, Son, but this is for Simon too. He went with mommy.”
His face is starkly blank, but his soul‘s windows reveal his reserved pathos.
“I‘ll make them a card so long daddy, but where‘d she go daddy, I want to send it soon? I never got to know Simon daddy. Where‘d they go daddy?”
“Heaven, my Son…”
The recession is leaving slowly and quietly, paying their utmost respect.
”Daddy, why are they all so sad? I thought Heaven was a good place daddy.”
The boy‘s father rests his hand on his son‘s small shoulders. He kneels down and buries his face in the soft wavy hair of his innocent son. His hair becomes damp, glistening in the tears like dew upon the new morning‘s grass.
A beautiful bouquet of flowing flowers is laid to rest on the soft mud – beside the gaping mouth of clay.
“Do you think they‘ll like them, son?”
And for the first time that day, the young only-child sheds a tear; a beauty so magnificent, so sincere and so serene it commands pity. It commands innocence. It commands reprieve. The final requiem for Simon and his mother.
Aging willows sag and sway in the soft winter breeze. Freshly fallen snow lies upon the unbroken soil. Dead leaves litter the open, sodden ground. Petals: pale, dull and smelling of a previous day’s mourning, scuttle across the abridged sky, becoming strewn across the old earth; fading beneath the falling water crystals. Golden rays glimmer in the midwinter’s dawn and open into a shameful array of colours.
The handsome man’s feet rustle the midwinter’s leaves. The blue sky is plagued by a single dark cloud looming over this forlorn reunion. The man has witnessed two dozen years since he had last seen the hedge maze tattered to the side; the broken fountain of the golden boy; since he had felt this soft, squelchy ground beneath his feet. The single grave is silent. The head-stone has become emaciated, yet the names are still clearly etched, not willing for their memoirs to be wrenched from this place yet. A golden tear falls to the ground. The sky wails in response. His new suede suit is dripping wet, his hair drenched; but still he remains staring, gazing, longing at the untouched sacred final resting place of his mother and barely born brother.
“I’m sorry I haven’t visited, mother, it’s just…” there is a long hiatus in which he feels his mother’s forgiveness. “I miss you mother. I wish you could see me now. You’d be so proud. I’ve done a lot with my life, mother.” Recollections of his incomplete life story are pouring out of his pent-up soul, temporarily halting his own waterfall.
His shaking hands and wobbling voice signals little words left.
“I love you mother, and you brother,” he pauses, “These are, for you…”
Two black roses –symbols of devotion – are placed at the base.
He stands up from his crouching position slowly and deliberately. Reluctantly he turns and faces away. Gradually he saunters. Leisurely the rain falls. And unhurriedly another tear, mingled with the fresh rain, splashes against the soil. Slowly they fade into oblivion, forever in the heart and mind of the boy who phoned heaven.