He takes her to the wood at midnight looking for a tree on which to carve their initials. Not this one, he says, as they walk round in circles. Or this, he says hours later. Her feet hurt, her head aches. Her fingers keep feeling the penknife. Its sharp edges.
2 comments:
Can he actually stretch his arms, reach out and lengthen his triceps in an effort to get to her? One day, she hopes. In the meantime, she clads him in a column of protective mesh, a barrier against the storms, removes the dead and diseased bits and waits for growth.
Nice metaphor there.
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