Lost in the Hills

John reached the flat rock at the fell's peak, breathless and with aching calves. He slipped his pack off and sat down to take in the view.  The lake glinted silver under the afternoon sun and the hills that crowded around it faded in layers into the golden haze.

They had come here soon after they'd met, eleven years ago now, and it had been one of those treasured memories which had defined them. They'd promised to come back to this spot, to enjoy this view and relive those moments, but they never did.

She'd been gone for over a year now but each day since she'd passed he'd felt her close by, always just outside his vision. His doctor had told him that he had to let go, that the feeling she was close was an unhealthy sign that he was holding on to something which was gone forever. And she would've agreed.

“Every day is a gift,” she'd told him in the days before she lost the capacity to communicate, “live them.”

For months afterwards he'd hated himself for being unable to live up to that final wish of hers. He'd shut himself away, uninterested in the world, unable to exist outside the extent of his grief.

In the corner of his eye she untied her ponytail and let the breeze unfurl her hair, just as she'd done the last time they'd been here. He felt his chin stiffen and water filled his eyes. He bowed his head and tried to swallow the mounting sadness away. He fancied he felt her hand on his arm.

A tear welled up and dripped onto the stone between his feet. The imaginary hand squeezed his arm.

“I know,” he said, “I'm sorry. I'll be OK in a minute.”