Ivy '06: In The Rough

The ridge overlooked the hill, the tree affronted by three stones. The hard price for peace left a bitter taste.

"He wouldn't want this."

Oppressive silence, like the heat beating down, harsh, unyielding…

"He didn't want that."

…heat ripples over barren ground…

"None of them did."

…hand resting gently on his shoulder…

"Be pissed at you doing this."

He winced at the cruel brightness…

"He was pissed at me a lot."

…dry wind blowing dust…

"He loved you."

…ashes…

"Let him go, Chris."

A whisper, echo, spoken by one as if said by another.

He squeezed his eyes shut.

"Yeah."

*Title from a poem by Arthur Chapman, 1917

End