Meadows

"She lacked direction," they said.

In the rolling meadows, a fluttering petal was carried by the wind. Lifted and buffeted along the way. It came to rest on a marker, a tombstone, nameless and unadorned.

The petal looked shrivelled as it talked about its past beauty.

If you looked in her eyes, you could see the careful blankness she had cultivated.

If you looked at her face, you could see the animation she played with.

It was his heart that beat for it.

The grass around the tombstone rustled as he sighed. The vast rolling emptiness in his heart would always be centred around the tombstone.

He could remember the night vividly.

Her eyes spoke as she drove into the wall.

She clearly had direction.

Now he didn’t have any left.