A young widowed father opening up about living with loss
She walked ahead along an unfamiliar bridge over the Thames.
A building at its mouth bellowed thick black and grey smoke as a fire blazed inside.
The sun shone in its blue sky around us but right ahead was nothing but the choking colours and textures of storm and suffocation.
A distressed young couple inside tried to escape through an open window but were stopped by a caretaker whose final job would be to close shutters.
Care was taken away rather than administered; they would surely die through his implausible action.
She turned to me astonished at what she had just seen.
To my surprise she wore glasses, which was rare and endearing.
She seemed to have no knowledge of the many stories her face could tell through even the slightest change of expression.
So slim in that moment, she was almost nothing to hold.
A white vest top and long red skirt.
It was her but not her style.
This time her death wouldn’t be a surprise.
She was ill and we knew our time together would run out.
She walked ahead and then down some steps that must have been constructed centuries before.
I held her and wept, begging her to stay and seek help.
And then she was gone.
It was the first time I had seen her in as long as I could remember.
And eternally the last.
Until next time, perhaps.