After The Flood

Grey. Flat, wide, expanse of grey, as far as the eye could see.
Nothing to distinguish land from sea or sky.
No landmarks. No sharp lines to divide the horizon.
Just grey.
Eerily still, too.
No wind, no air, not even a breath.
Just silence.
People had long since fled. Even the birds were gone.
Given up on a habitat so battered and bruised and finally submerged – put out of its misery.
Because this was a miserable place alright.
December 12, 2012, the day the landscape died.
It had been terminally ill long before the flood. Before the tears.
He could still remember the night she told him.
Five short words. Four if you ignore the punctuation.
Four or five words which killed her, and there and then sentenced him, and the landscape around him, around them, to death.
“I’ve found a lump.”
They were sitting on the sofa.
The woodburner was blazing.
Their home was filled with love. And life.
He’d wanted to be with her ever since the day he first set eyes on her.
Those eyes. That smile.
He never dreamt they’d actually get together.
“You’d be punching way above your weight there,” work colleagues would say.
They were right.
But somehow, through some miracle, get together they did.
The happiest day of his life.
Or so he thought.
In fact the day after that was the happiest day of his life. And the one after that. And so it went on.
The more he lived with her, the more he loved her. There was no limit to their affection.
It didn’t matter whether they were running together in the hills, or curled up side by side on the sofa, he knew he was the luckiest man alive.
From Europe’s finest cities to Britain’s remote landscapes, from wild beaches to chic cafes, rock concerts to art galleries, every time he looked across, he saw that smile.
But that day she told him. The day his world collapsed, hit by a landslide so devastating there was never going to be any recovery, there were only tears.
First they welled up in his eyes. Then trickled down his cheek. He wanted to fight it. Wanted to be strong for her.
But gazing into her soft blue eyes he could see the tears starting to rise from her.
They wouldn’t stop. They came in floods now.
They both broke down, sobbing so much, holding each other so tight.
Nature joined the devastating discord.
Rain hammered against the window.
Wind whistled down the wind burner.
They huddled together against the world, sheltering from everything.
By morning, when they finally woke, their bodies aching after being curled, contorted, on the sofa, rain still pelted the window, wind still rattled down the chimney.
The rain didn’t stop. It never stopped.
Neither did the tears.
Until the day, hers finally ceased, until there were simply no more to give.
The day she died. December 12, 2012.
The day after the flood.
The day he knew his tears would flow forever.