I never expected to end my days in a barren land. I, who always took pride in keeping a flourishing garden. I came here looking for something, I´ll admit, and in a way, it seems I found it.
On the third day I stumbled upon it, the grave I mean. It´s a sad story; simple wooden cross, once painted in cheap colour, now withered and worn down by the endless wind that roams these lands. Some sort of inscription I believe, but of course it can´t be deciphered now; fairy letters on milky mist.
I touch the cross. Run my fingers along the creases and crevasses of the dry, dead wood, and it seems to communicate with me, someone´s story pouring into me, eager to be heard.
She came here with expectations, promised a life improved. A man I assume, dazzling her with the prospect of a house, a family, a life. She must have been a daft creature to settle for that, to agree to come here to these impossible outlands in search of nothing more. And then something went wrong. An argument. A quarrel. A brutal and shocking ending. Some digging and here she lies.
But why the cross? Why bother with that kind of civilized detail? He must have had regrets, I imagine. Maybe he was seduced by their dreamed-up prospects too, maybe more than her life ended in this godforsaken grave?
And here I lie. On barren land, my hands on the cross. She had such lovely, glossy curls, all covered in sand now. I wish I´d have had one of the roses from my childhood summers to put on her grave, but they´re all long since gone. No one will rise a cross for me but hers will suffice for both of us. In a way it´s a comforting thought.
The sun is very present here, the sun and the wind, with me. Always.