I can hear his footsteps squelching softly in the mud. It must be Friday. Greg comes by every Friday, before work. I guess these visits help him.
I can see him now, enveloped in the fog. He’s bringing flowers, again. I wish he knew that they really aren’t necessary; all that matters is that he still comes by. He’s already done more than enough. Does he think I still blame him?
He’s wearing a thick jacket. It must be getting colder, but that doesn’t stop him. He came all last winter, even when it snowed. I worry though… if the winter is harsh, will he stop coming?
What will happen if he forgets? What will happen if he does finally find someone else, if he can stop blaming himself? What will happen if he can let go of the past, which would mean letting go of me? Will he be better off? Part of me wants him to move on, take control of his life… but another part of me wants him to keep coming back. Am I being selfish? How long can I expect him to keep coming?
It’s… well, I guess it’s been about two years now. We’ve both been counting the days, in our own separate ways. And I know that we’ve both been re-living that awful night. We’d both had too much to drink… I’ve been sober ever since.
He’s almost past the trees now. Just a few more steps, and he’ll be here. I wait. Patience is something I’ve learned since the accident. A bird cries in the distance. Greg kneels, and places the flowers. He can’t see me, but I’m smiling. Slowly, he stands up, and begins walking back down the path. And I begin waiting for next Friday.
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...from my window to yours...
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