I. Apricot Trees
There are apricot trees in the grove, but I cannot remember the last time I glanced at them. They keep their silent vigil, watching the comings and goings of everything else, yet saying nothing. Absolutely nothing.
Every living thing has something to say, if only we can listen in the right way. But the apricot trees say nothing.
Yet nevertheless, they remind me of her. Of the flaxen flower that captured my heart only weeks ago. Flikka. Even the endless beauty of nature's splendor cannot compare to hers.
It is late summer, and the blossoms are beginning to wither and fall softly from their branches. Soon, golden fruit will bow the tree's limbs, and then, even that will die. It is inevitable, the cycle of life.
I can still remember her face, tense even as she slept. Buccaneer curled by her side. How I hated leaving her. But it's for the best. It's for the balance.
Suddenly, I can hear a chorus of sweet, ethereal voices. It is a while before I realize it is the apricot trees, singing Flikka's name.
Author's note: This four-part series was written as part of a quiz on The Attic, posted during the week of 14 October 2002. It called for drabbles 200 words or under.