More of a short story.

Time slowed to a crawl, despite two squirrels playing a vigorous round of tree-tag. The hill wasn’t steep until he negotiated it with his own two legs. Mark’s breathing was more labored but controlled. In through the nose, out through the mouth.

The walk teased a sense of grounding. His footfalls added depth and cadence. The smell of early autumn settled around his shoulders. The slightest breeze knocked the gold, red, and burnished leaves off one at a time. They descended like stilettoed debutantes down a spiral staircase. He tried to grasp one only for it to wobble out of his reach.

It was then he accepted the inability to catch Jen. Seeing her alive and responsive wasn’t possible. To hear her words and read her lips while she uttered them was history. Memories, and the fear of losing them glared like the late afternoon sun.

The crest of the hill offered no service for his phone. About a quarter mile away a black arrow indicated a sharp turn. He cinched up his pants, tied the windbreaker around his waist, and picked up the pace.

The last time Mark was outside like this was the half mile walk in Figi from their bungalow to the beach. He and Jen didn’t talk the whole way, but took in the colors, wildlife, and the increasing volume of the waves making a final statement before soaking into the sand.

Now, nature was doing what she does best. Cycling and recycling the seasons of the upper Midwest. His Jen, also succumbed to the rhythm of life, although her death wasn’t natural. How many people die of natural causes? An aching thought of her death was on a loop. Drowning was merciless, and the thought of her gasping for air but inhaling only water left Mark in deep anguish.

 Within hours after her death his faith in God spasmed. His prayers were few and manifested in groans. He was tossed between folding his hands and raising a fist Godward. The emotions were raw open wounds, wild, and unrestrained.

Days later, flying back home with his dad and Jen’s parents’, guilt sloshed beneath his red blotched face. He fought the sleep he felt he did not deserve, and when he nodded off, dreams of tragedy awoke him with a start.

This little hike didn’t dissolve the numbness that had settled in. After a month of friends and family offering condolences, Mark was worn to the nubs. They all meant well, and in the end the ones who sat silently spoke into his grief the most. He took a swig of iced tea and walked on toward the sharp turn ahead.