She is led back here repeatedly as if drawn by a force. She knows not what she awaits but wait, she does.
After a time, she sees him; the figure of her dreams. Perhaps this is her destiny. His face is downcast as he caresses a bouquet of flowers. He stops at the forlorn tree and gently places the flowers at its base.
She peers at the large note attached. It reads, “I miss you.”
Blowing him a kiss, one he does not see, she feels a release- her spirit set free.
She feels herself fading as she leaves him crying by the old, dead tree.

©Vivian Zems

Memento mori (Latin: “remember that you have to die”)

Friday Fictioneers with Rochelle Wisoff

Image by Dale Rogerson