The Little Could Have Been

      We stood on top of a hill. The wind was gusting about, as if trying to comfort us. But it was December, and for all its efforts, the air was anything but warm, reassuring or even comfortable. Then there was a chill that even the wind shuddered away from. That was from us.

       Not quite just from us, actually, but rather from the events that transpired and conspired us to the hill we stood upon.

       The hill itself was of little value. It was mounted by three cedar trees that rode upon it in a triangular fashion. Those were important. They sheltered us from what was outside the hill. No, not sheltered. We were no longer sheltered, for we both had just been exposed to the harsh realities of the world. The trees were what comforted us. They were the sentinels to the tombstones, who kept a vigil on the living. These three trees were the sole green in the graveyard. They expelled a fresh scent, to remind the dead of life, until fresh flowers could be brought. These three trees were the guardians of life in the resting of the dead.

        But they could not keep the cold out.

    I chanced a glance at her. She wasnt crying. Of all the inappropriate times she cries, she chooses now not to, I thought with a grim smile. But I wouldn't understand. And my quirky humour, no matter how much she loved it, would have no effect on her tearless, emotionless visage.

     I wasn't warm enough to break the cold. Her cold. Like the seasons, only time warms the earth and only time would warm her body again. I shifted the spade I was carrying to my left hand, then embraced my right in hers.

    She started crying.

       They were not diamonds. Nor were they sparkling gems for me to brush away. The tears pouring from her eyes were not poetic, nor cute. They are only worthy of mention because, though tears fell, only one made the journey down the rounded bowel of her cheek, past her red lips, and sprung off her jaw. Only one.

     I smiled again. I was looking for anything to smile about. It vanished.

        The wind howled, urging us on.

        She looked at me, eyes glistening, took something out of her pocket, placed it gently but not slowly into my hand. She turned away. It was a blue box. It had her writing in white paint on the top. I sighed heavily. This had been my idea after all.

         I knelt, and placed the box in the little hole I had dug. I replaced the moss and dirt back over it. I stood up, and the wind whispered in encouragement. I picked up a broken limp of cedar. It was in a "t" shape. I smiled one last time that day, and then thrust the stick into the ground next to the disturbed moss. The disturbed moss that which underneath lay a baby blue box with words in white paint:

                         The little could have been

       I started crying.