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- Story Listed as: Fiction For Adults
- Theme: Family & Friends
- Subject: Memory / Reminiscence
- Published: 03/28/2015
The garden stood, bare and dilapidated, the last few damp leaves withering under the deep autumn afternoon sun. Charlotte stood, her hands deep in the pockets of her black overcoat, her mind wandering through the distant years of her childhood. She could see him here now, her father’s face reflected in every leaf that fell and every barren tree that creaked in the soft breeze. The emptiness here inside the blank stone walls seemed at a complete contrast to his expression in her memory, lively and jovial, his deep booming laugh echoing throughout the garden. Even the summer house stood bleakly by the green gates, desolate and exposed, the light from the sun glinting from one smashed window. There was no smell of roses as there had once been, no strong perfume coming from the once pungent lavender patch. It was all gone. She strained her ears, desperately hoping to hear the soft trickle of water from the stream, but nothing came. The strange metallic tinging from the wind chimes were mixed in her mind with the tinkling laughter of her mother as she had stood in the stream, holding up her skirt, her two daughters paddling around her legs. She felt those long hot days of summer bear down on her, and she remembered lying flat on the grass, too hot to move, as her father had poured cool refreshing glasses of lemonade.
The church bells began to ring again behind her, and a soft gust of wind swept the last memories out of her mind. She felt the soft layers of black silk whisper around her knees and shivered, glancing behind her. The strong looming shape of the building behind her was overpowering in this soft landscape. The sharp edges and dark bricks jutted out like a knife, and she wondered, not for the first time, how she could ever have called this home. She longed to walk inside, to trace their long-gone footsteps, to wander the corridors and recall her old life, but she knew she must not. It was too late.
“Charlotte?”
She felt Sophie move to stand beside her.
“Are you alright?”
Charlotte turned, and looked deep into her friends eyes, seeing and feeling the pity that was within them.
She shook her head, feebly, feeling the diamonds sway in her ears.
“I just…I didn’t realise it was all gone.”
Sophie nodded, her blonde hair catching the light and shining against the sun.
“I know. Why do you think the Wakefields didn’t want it?”
Charlotte glanced at the moss-strewn ground and shrugged, feeling a hard lump rise ominously in her throat. “I suppose…I suppose they didn’t think it was important.”
There was silence. The clanging of the church bells had stopped and a long pregnant pause stretched between them. And then:
“It wasn’t your fault, Charlotte.”
The words resonated in her ears, and swam around her brain, a jumble of meaningless letters with no essence to them. How she longed for them to be true. How she wished for them to be true. Absent-mindedly, she fingered the groove on her left hand where her ring had once been and imagined it sitting there again, cold and hard against her warm skin. He had sent her letters. He had asked her, and begged her to come back, to reunite with the family. And for the first time since their parting, Charlotte’s heart filled with regret and she felt it swell with anger at her own self, terrible igniting anger that surged through every fibre of her being. Her own father. She had abandoned her own father.
“But it was my fault. Don’t you see that, Sophie? It was all my fault.”
The Garden(LoveLifeAndLaugh)
The garden stood, bare and dilapidated, the last few damp leaves withering under the deep autumn afternoon sun. Charlotte stood, her hands deep in the pockets of her black overcoat, her mind wandering through the distant years of her childhood. She could see him here now, her father’s face reflected in every leaf that fell and every barren tree that creaked in the soft breeze. The emptiness here inside the blank stone walls seemed at a complete contrast to his expression in her memory, lively and jovial, his deep booming laugh echoing throughout the garden. Even the summer house stood bleakly by the green gates, desolate and exposed, the light from the sun glinting from one smashed window. There was no smell of roses as there had once been, no strong perfume coming from the once pungent lavender patch. It was all gone. She strained her ears, desperately hoping to hear the soft trickle of water from the stream, but nothing came. The strange metallic tinging from the wind chimes were mixed in her mind with the tinkling laughter of her mother as she had stood in the stream, holding up her skirt, her two daughters paddling around her legs. She felt those long hot days of summer bear down on her, and she remembered lying flat on the grass, too hot to move, as her father had poured cool refreshing glasses of lemonade.
The church bells began to ring again behind her, and a soft gust of wind swept the last memories out of her mind. She felt the soft layers of black silk whisper around her knees and shivered, glancing behind her. The strong looming shape of the building behind her was overpowering in this soft landscape. The sharp edges and dark bricks jutted out like a knife, and she wondered, not for the first time, how she could ever have called this home. She longed to walk inside, to trace their long-gone footsteps, to wander the corridors and recall her old life, but she knew she must not. It was too late.
“Charlotte?”
She felt Sophie move to stand beside her.
“Are you alright?”
Charlotte turned, and looked deep into her friends eyes, seeing and feeling the pity that was within them.
She shook her head, feebly, feeling the diamonds sway in her ears.
“I just…I didn’t realise it was all gone.”
Sophie nodded, her blonde hair catching the light and shining against the sun.
“I know. Why do you think the Wakefields didn’t want it?”
Charlotte glanced at the moss-strewn ground and shrugged, feeling a hard lump rise ominously in her throat. “I suppose…I suppose they didn’t think it was important.”
There was silence. The clanging of the church bells had stopped and a long pregnant pause stretched between them. And then:
“It wasn’t your fault, Charlotte.”
The words resonated in her ears, and swam around her brain, a jumble of meaningless letters with no essence to them. How she longed for them to be true. How she wished for them to be true. Absent-mindedly, she fingered the groove on her left hand where her ring had once been and imagined it sitting there again, cold and hard against her warm skin. He had sent her letters. He had asked her, and begged her to come back, to reunite with the family. And for the first time since their parting, Charlotte’s heart filled with regret and she felt it swell with anger at her own self, terrible igniting anger that surged through every fibre of her being. Her own father. She had abandoned her own father.
“But it was my fault. Don’t you see that, Sophie? It was all my fault.”
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