It had been three winters, three springs, summers, and autumns. The seasons melded together without her light there to breathe life into them.
Henry spent his days working from darkest dawn to waning dusk, the minutes gnawing at his heart, tumbling into hours, days, years. Grief is an unwelcome squatter that has overstayed its visit.
He ate his meals out, avoiding the kitchen when he was home. Dust had settled like a soft wooly sheath on the furniture and floated in the streams of sunlight that slipped through the shuttered curtains.
Henry managed to keep up appearances in public with a ready smile and affirming nod. From the outside he appeared to be getting on with life. The house too held its facade intact with its gleaming white-washed siding and welcoming portico.
Those who ventured past the gate though, realized something was amiss. The garden, once vibrant with fragrant blossoms, had been overtaken by thistles and brambles.
“I must see to the garden,” Henry often mused. In truth, he had grown accustomed to the weeds.
kat – 16 July 2016
(175 Words)
Part 2 of Jane Dougherty’s Microfiction Challenge inspired this week by this painting, La Porte by Henri Duhem. You can other Parts HERE.
like mercury colliding... 