Hilltop Diary.

The inspiration.

For sale: Baby shoes, never worn.

– Ernest Miller Hemingway

The story.

Hilltop Diary.

On a hilltop at sunrise, they twirled & whirled for the last time, all over again. Hurried clouds burned carmine and purple, and she was in his arms, as she hummed.

“This is for the daybreak & life. For dreams, reverence & chance of the dice.”

He spun her like a dervish, wheeling & spinning her about and about, watching her long, dark tresses mask the face like a funeral veil.

“So come, o crazy man, and let me lose. My feet’s been walking the whole night to reach you.”

He dipped her body in a waltz , kissed her scarlet mouth, then lifted her into the azure heavens. She laughed a loud, short laugh with the type of delight that he couldn’t remember ever being privy to.

“Let’s dance upon a hill, let’s play in the heath. Let’s eat, drink and merry be, till out last breath”.

And the melody concluded, and stars appeared in the western horizon. Her expression was whimsical. His heart kept racing.

“It’s time, isn’t it,” he asked her, begrudgingly.

“It is,” she said. “It’s time.”

And so he woke, and the bed next to him was empty, and once more he was a widower.

He put on his ring and practiced that brilliant smile in the mirror, a smile that made heads turn & his eyes crinkle, the sort of smile she loved. He practiced that perfect smile &  faced the day.


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