So this little idea came to me and would not leave me alone until I wrote it... Not really sure that it works, but I would love to know what you think...

Thanks for reading :D

xX

She probably visits his grave too often, she supposes as she makes her way down the familiar winding path to his final resting place. But then, she feels she already does well to limit herself to special occasions. Birthdays, Christmases, Easter, Sunday Afternoons. He always liked Sundays. She knows she couldn't not visit, not only for the guilt she would feel were she not to, but it genuinely helps her in her hours of grief; and though she never thought she'd need to visit a gravestone to remember the people who're gone, she just likes to be close to him if only for a little while; she likes to know that for a few minutes every so often, he isn't on his own.

She lets the sun wash over her face as she looks up at the blue sky overhead, and her breath is once again taken away by the sheer beauty of the place. The cemetery is set in the grounds of a little old stone church, high on the hill over looking nothing but rolling hills, extending into a sea of green for as far as the eye can see. She likes that it isn't enclosed, not claustrophobic and she loves that on the face of it, it isn't a sad place to be. She thinks he'd like that too and she is reminded once again that he is, at least, at peace now.

Her feet stop, as if by their own accord at the foot of his grave and she kneels softly on the carpet of green grass which surrounds her. She smiles as if he's right there in front of her and murmurs an almost silent "hello" as her eyes trace the patch of grass and she shakes her head in wonderment at how time has passed. The rectangle patch of grass in front of his headstone is no longer distinguishable from that around it, and his headstone itself is looking a bit worse for wear, evidently years of the great British weather taking their toll.

Her eyes trace the now dulled inscription and a tear escapes her watering eyes, as a sob wrenches through her body and threatens to engulf her. It's silly to cry, still, she knows but she can't stop herself. It's a cliché but every time she comes here she can only see what could have been, how her life could have been different in so many ways, how, with him here for her everything might just be that little bit easier. Coming here seems to renew the pain over and over, and yet she can't help herself from turning up, renewing the flowers, telling him what's new, wondering if he's OK. The tears are falling fast and freely now, as she curses herself for feeling so sorry for herself but they had just had so little time together before he'd been snatched away. She'll remember that day forever. The day her world fell apart, being told he wasn't coming home with her, being told he would never be coming home with her again. She looks up at his headstone and berates him, not for the first time, for leaving her, for not fighting more when he knew how much she needed him around.

Trying to regain some composure, she edges round the grass and removes the now dead tulips she brought the last time she was here. She unwraps the daffodils she's brought this time, and arranges them lovingly in the vase in front of her. They're definitely not the greatest flowers she's ever seen, she picked them from her own garden and they are obviously not shop bought. One is looking a bit dead already, whilst they all seem to range vastly in size and none appear to be the same colour, but she thinks he'd like them, flowers she'd grown, in her garden. His Ruth.

She tells him now of her love for him, and she's sure she can hear him return the sentiment. She just wishes she could speak to him properly, ask his advice, see what he thinks of her life, her decisions since he left her.

She wishes he could meet the man she married, she hopes he'd approve. She wishes he could meet her daughter, see how her eyes are the same beautiful blue as hers. She wishes he could wrap his arms around her, even one last time.

Wearily, she stands, wiping the tears from her face telling herself sternly they're the last. She's not surprised when she looks around to find so many people up here, some like her, in front of graves, grieving for their lost loved ones. Others are wandering up and down the parallel paths past the rows of gravestones, stopping occasionally to read about people they never knew, and some are simply sitting on the wooden benches, enjoying the view and most probably the peace and quiet.

Ruth turns and she sees him and her heart lifts instantly as it always does. He's got their daughter on one hip, as he points out various sights in the distance, their little girl obviously no longer interested in the daisy chains now strewn across the grass. She smiles subconsciously at how much better she feels having them here with her, and her love for him grows as she realises this is him giving her space to be alone with the man she loved so very much. She catches his eye and beckons him over as she turns to the grave once again. She feels him approach and wrap an arm around her waist and she instinctively sinks into his embrace, as she addresses the grave in front of her and the man she lost so long ago.

"Dad…. This is Harry."

So? What did you think?

:)