The Conversation

The young woman walked up with a smile on her face. She could have been older. There were lines bracketing her mouth and eyes, telling stories. Those line told stories no lips could. Still, she was pretty, but a deep sadness mingled with understanding and compassion in the chocolate brown depths of her eyes.

The smile stayed in place, and she grasped her skirt between her fingers, settling gracefully onto the lawn. The sweet, green scent of grass wafted up around her as she sat, and the smile deepened.

The conversation was trivial. The usual hello, how are you, how's the family. Each seeking information the other already knew. Then they let the silence speak. It spoke through the birds, the wind, the rustle of the leaves. It spoke mysteries left unsolved, feelings left uncovered, burdens yet unveiled. It was to be expected. And it was fine. There was an underlying understanding of this, and neither one held it against the other.

The woman looked down, still quiet, intent on the task of straightening her skirt. The way it pooled around her legs fascinated her. The ripples in the cloth, so like that of a stream. A stone tossed in, created them. The ripples in life defined you, and maybe that's why she was entranced. The sound of her voice startled her; she hadn't realized she spoke aloud. She felt herself flush. These thoughts surprised her- so meaningful, yet they really meant nothing. They explained nothing.

She allowed herself to get lost in the ebb and flow of her thoughts. Every inconsequential detail of everything around her emerged, and she concentrated on that. Other people's faces, what their eyes said, the stories their faces spoke. The birds, the insects, all had their own special language known only to them. She felt as though she was eavesdropping on Mother Nature.

The girl lightly ran her fingers on top of the grass, then ran her fingers through it, almost as if she would be able to comb it. She sat there, idly stroking the ground, and began pouring out her heart and soul. Dreams, goals, day-to-day goings on. Fears, wants, needs, worries. Feelings, emotions, reactions. The past several months and everything about them came pouring from her lips, same as the tears poured from her eyes. The salty tang wet her lips and it suddenly halted her speech. A tear hung daintily off her top lip, and with her next breath she jarred it loose. It landed on her thigh, and she could have sworn she heard it splash. Her grief was so complete, it itself flowed through her veins, taunting her, burning her as it trailed through.

How well did they know each other? Really. Truly. Had the past six years been an act? Had either of them really been themselves? Lord knew the girl had held much back. Hadn't said a tenth of the things she wanted to. If she had, would've the outcome been different? It probably wouldn't have changed anything, same as you can't change the direction of the wind. She wouldn't allow that cloak of despair to accompany her every day. It could settle about her once and again, for it made her know she was alive, but it would not, could not, be her constant companion.

How was it for him? Did he know she bit her tongue, and held much away from him? When she did speak her mind, how did he feel? Did it matter to him? Did he care? Did it hurt, those words of truth?

Now, the time had passed- there wasn't a chance to discover the answers.

The midday sun beat down on the woman's head, and a breeze flitted through the trees. She glanced up, watching the puffy clouds, seemingly looking for answers. But none came. No apologies, no excuses, no reason.

She said 'I'm sorry' out loud, and was surprised by that. She didn't feel she was really in the wrong. But it poured from her lips, her heart, and a new wave of tears stung her eyes. She blinked rapidly, but they fell anyway. She didn't even try to wipe them away. The heat of them seemed to scald her soul, but in a way, it was clarifying her. Once that wave of emotion was spent, she leaned back, crossing her ankles.

Her eyes drifted shut, and she felt at peace somehow. The anger, the sadness, the confusion, the guilt- all seemed to abate. The woman sighed, thankful for the release of pressure. Then she heard the words, 'It's not your fault. Don't be sorry.' Ahh, at last, her companion took notice. She felt warm, and knew it had to do with more than just the heat of the afternoon. She sat and thought a while more, but all that could be done, had been.

The girl decided to bring the meeting to a close. As she stood, she brushed a few wayward strands of grass from the polished stone. Pressing a kiss to her fingertips, she laid them across her father's name, and said goodbye.