Don’t be here.

The oak tree swayed under the wind’s howl, moaning and cracking as the spring wind rustled the leaves. The smell of manure hung low and heavy across the field. A farmer spreading it generously on his crops one field over.

I do not want to be here.

As dawn broke the horizon and flung it’s fingers into the shadows of the farm, a sparrow called to a crow and the crow disappeared with the night. I clasped the sharp edges of the ruby brooch and let the pain from the points of the red star be all that I felt. When I could take no more, I relaxed my fingers and let the muscles and flesh bruise underneath. I stepped forward, the mud sucking and slurping at my boots, as if the field itself was begging me not to tread any further.

The field does not want me to be here.

As the light grew brighter, my heart grew darker and the tree became ever closer. I didn’t know any words that could describe how I felt here; no doubt the Dickens’ of the world would but I was not a writer, nor a farmer, or even a builder anymore. I was a widower.

And the morning light does not want me to be here.

Its fingers, now tendrils, clasped the tree in brightness as if to let me see it more clearly. “You want to look,” I heard it cry, “then take a look.” It’s sadness mirrored my own, for a great light had been lost from the world but my desire to see was stronger. As the rain began to fall, light and drizzly for just a moment, then more aggressively, I felt sadness, sweeping up from the roots beneath the tree, settle heavily on my damp skin.

The universe does not want me to be here.

But I stepped forward all the same; neither the light, nor the slurping, nor the celestial weeping could stop me. I had to see.

And there it hung, just a loop of rope around a thick branch with its small frayed tail billowing in the wind. That small, recently cut, tail was all I had left. I couldn’t bare it anymore. The crow had returned and perched with its talons deep in the rope’s jute skin and, with that, I knew only death haunted here. Not my beautiful Anna – May. I threw the brooch into the mud below, the light blossoming off into the much like roots that were stained red with blood.

My dead wife does not want me to be here.


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