Beginnings

In a spur of inspiration and good intention, I have decided to use a book which I was given a while ago, to actually complete a piece of writing every single day, because, lets face it, I'm crap at ending things. It won't always be good. It won't always be long, but it will have a definite conclusion.

That's the plan. Let's see how long it lasts. Here's yesterday's:

Write about a rendezvous.

Old Sam’s fingers delicately brushed the top of the pocked, weathered stone, just once, before he half knelt, half fell – for his knees weren’t what they used to be and they just wouldn’t bend - to the mound before it.

He stared, a moment of distrust clouding his eyes in a blur of velvet hair and petal scented skin and laughter. But in an instant, the memories were pushed back to the corners of his mind by the present, which contained, right now, rather more mud and a lot less laughter.

She’d be disgusted by the smoke, caught in the weave of his coat where there had once been the scent of a scalding iron. He’d taken to wearing the same grey-green trousers for every visit, too, because the drop to the ground was heavy, and he didn’t possess half her skill when it came to stains. He could hear her nagging voice every time he pulled the cloth up from round his knees and fastened the belt. ‘You’re a disgrace, Samuel. Will you look at that! For the love of Jesus, put on something respectable!’ And inside, he’d grimace even whilst he smiled.

But he wouldn’t let it stop him turning up; they’d never let a harsh word stay between them, and he wasn’t about to succumb to intolerant misgivings now.

Slowly, righting his balance, Old Sam pulled up the foolish dandelion which had poked its head up at the base of the stone. She’d always liked them, she said. They reminded her of balmy days upon the pier, filled with exotic heat and joy. Nevertheless, they were weeds. They looked untidy, and he’d not have anyone think she were unwanted. Besides, as soon as the weeds grew, the louts with aerosols would make their move, just like they’d done to Edie’s grave the other week. Old Tom had been distraught for days; who could do such a thing? He scuffed the leathery patches of lichen away. There. then, edging closer to the stone, as much to have something to catch his balance on as for their privacy, he sat back on his haunches, gazing deep into the space between earth and headstone.

This was awkward. She’d always been the talkative one, and to be honest, he was at a bit of a loss. He crouched there for a while, steadying himself with one arm against her pillar. It was always like this. She’d want to talk, but there was sport to watch, or roses to tend to, and what business was it of theirs what number thirty two were up to, anyway? Still, he’d listen, with half an ear, and grunt accordingly, and he’d always been there. He was now.

Eventually, because the wind had picked up quite a chill and he feared he’d never stand again if it got into his joints, he stood up - slowly, for it was all his old body would allow. He’d come to no conclusions and made no confessions, but there wasn’t any need.

And with one, long look across his shoulder, he bade her adieu, until their next encounter