‘There is melancholy in the wind and sorrow in the grass’ – Charles Kuralt.
It would have been a beautiful scene; there was a gentle breeze blowing the trees back and forth by the lake, the water gently rippling, cold to the touch. There wasn’t a single cloud in the sky and the grass was thick and lush. I would have been the best time of year, the middle of spring. It would have been perfect, but it was all grey to me.
I walked by the lakeside every day, remembering. I see where we used to sit, our feet dangling in the water kicking ripples across the mirror surface. I remember our childlike laughter, the feeling that nothing could ever go wrong for us. I remember sitting under the trees reading while he painted the sunrise, while he painted me. I kept the paintings; they help me to remember. The sunrise is still beautiful, and the lake still has ripples across it's surface but there is none of the happiness that I used to feel here. There are only memories now.
I see the willow tree, whose long branches used to embrace us as we spent our long summer days together. I see where we used to play cards in her shade and where he serenaded me in the light of the moon. I remember, half smiling, how I could never beat him at any game, I used to try so hard. It didn't matter, we were happy. Now I am shrouded in sorrow. Our willow gives no comfort now; she is a stranger to me.
This place is empty. There is nothing left but the memories.