I’m still here, you know. Even through these misty eyes, I still see.
But when you look, you see an old person sitting in a chair, unable to speak,
the times I played and danced and laughed
Why don’t you see me?
you should still see
Henry would like to be great at everything but never will be.
“Let’s walk to our tree,” she’d say. Our special place.
Through the wood, twigs snap underfoot. The brook flows by, reflecting dazzling summer sun. At the tree, a blackbird sings. I run my fingers over her initials, still carved into the trunk.
She’s gone. Her name forever in my heart.
Henry writes micro, flash and full fiction. He lives in Somerset, UK and he likes trees.