The Good Things
My first post here on SF, hope you like it. Rather sad but also sort of feel good.
He'd never experienced this before. He'd heard of it but he'd never had an issue with writing. The words always just seemed to flow through him as he wrote. But now, sitting in this lonesome cabin, he couldn't think of anything but her. The way she smiled when they would hug or the way she would tilt her head when he asked if she was alright. The way she would tuck the bottom of the table cover up under the skirt of the table and how she kept the painting on the wall at a small angle. The way her eyes closed when she smiled and the way she was always blushing around him. How, at her funeral, her mother hadn't shed a single tear because when she was little she told her family to never cry over her. How she wanted a simple funeral, just to be buried and be happy. How she gave him a white rose every year for their anniversary, or how she'd held his arm when she was scared or nervous. How she smelled of sweet lavender and it seemed to be on everything she touched and followed her. Even now, sitting here, he could smell her. He looked at his now-soaked paper and stood, wiping his nose and drinking from his drink. He didn't want to be sad. She wouldn't want him to be, she would want him to outside and breathe the air and forget about the sad things and focus on the good things. He wondered where she was right now, and if she still smiled at him when she saw him. He wondered if she was still happy and if she was happy that he was happy. He smiled up at the sky and laid in the grass, closing his eyes.