https://Voice.club - The crisp clear October air awakens her from sleep. Acknowledging fellow travelers along the way, Moran continues to make her way through the woods toward her destination.
As she moves between trees, the heady scent of autumn surrounds her. Musk of crushed leaves, sweet tang of rotten apples, trees releasing life’s spirit through their leaves. In the offing hovers a whiff of dying campfire.
Moral moves along, accompanied by chittering squirrels, song of birds, and surrsurring of the wind caressing the trees. The sun shines benignly down, its goal to distribute flakes of red and gold among the trees, not to give warmth. Warmth doesn’t mean much to Moran now, anyway.
The day is perfect. Moran ascends the hillside, stopping now and then to lovingly run her finger along the fringe of a fern or to closely examine a particularly bright piece of quartz which catches her eye.
By the time she reaches the top, the sun has passed its zenith and is beginning its slow descent. Moran’s plan is to just stay and ponder the valley below on this perfect October day.
She can see the house where she grew up, now covered with vines which are themselves a profusion of color: creamy honeysuckle, blue passionflower, and sweet autumn clematis which she smells from her hillside perch. Over there is the field where she and her love shared a first kiss and a pledge of eternity. And, between house and field, glows the reason for her viewing. Its cerulean shines with a brightness which belies the bitter feelings it evokes.
It was in this lake where Moran lost her love, her inspiration, then her own life. Each year on the anniversary, she returns to this spot, to feel again at least for one day, life which eludes her the rest of the year.
As the sun retreats to its night’s rest beneath the horizon, she, too, descends the hill, then retraces her steps to her corner of the graveyard where the empty grave awaits to keep her in thrall until another crisp, clear October day.