My Sunday rest

On the first warm day of spring, she remembered a dear friend.

He was on the wafts of fresh air that she inhaled through her nose, and amongst the swaying trees and ferns outside her house. She thought she could hear him walking through the dead leaves, rustling and damp from all of the melted snow.

The bright sunlight reminded her of his joyful sprints across the yard, always happy to say hello whenever she dropped by. The warm bricks by the patio unearthed memories of the peaceful silences they experienced together, when he was her only companion during that lonely summer.

The dusk brought melancholy, as dusks tend to do. The calls of the birds and peepers seemed to mingle with the distant sound of his voice, although she knew it was only in her thoughts. She couldn’t help but glance towards his favorite hiding places, wishing and waiting for him to return.

There will come a day where her first warm day of spring won’t be at this house. Another family will buy it, and they will enjoy the trees, the birds, and the smells of fresh soil. But they won’t know to look for him, always on the edges of the woods—his woods.

Next spring she will be on the other side of the world, remembering how he helped her get through the days. Perhaps he will be there too, just around the corner.

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