Without Her

       My legs pump heavy, pushing me further and further into the forest. The tread of my tennis shoes leave their imprint on crunched brown leaves. The leaves behind watch me run while the trees ahead welcome me deeper into their midst. My breath is jagged with the weight it carries from chest to exhale. The weight of it all. The impossibly tragic thought that this heart could keep beating after being shredded into bits. I wag my arms and shoulders in tune with each step. I feel drips of light sweat seep out of the crooks of my elbows and hurriedly wipe my forehead with the palm of my hand. The salty mess still stings these blue eyes. I ball up my fists tightly, angrily pounding out the last few yards. I see the lake water, sunlight sparkling off the glassy surface in tranquility. Peace might be there but I have to fight a few more seconds to find out. The tears emerge prematurely, fighting with the dripping sweat and my head pounds. I come to the water’s edge with a couple long steps, my bones stretching out and obnoxiously landing in finality.

       Everything hurts. My chest burns hot, legs throb, headache on the brink of explosion. I embrace this physical pain to carry outside of the body what lies within. I raise my hands above my head and cover my ears with my heated arms as if to drown out my thoughts. Why? Why can I get rid of excess energy with a three mile jog, yet the heart has no release? My hands move to my knees and I resist the urge to collapse flat on the leafy bed. The water is there, it is always there tucked between rolling hills lined with forest. It waits for me nearly every day.

       I drag my sweaty ponytail out from its knot and shake my hair loose. My chest still heaves and I know it is time for my haunting ritual. My sore feet bring me to the drop of water on leaf and I cry out into the void with every ounce left. I scream, my lungs reaching out far on the water. I yell words and no words all at the same time. I grab my hair though it hurts and grab my heart though I can’t.

I scream because today is her birthday.

       I want to strangle the air and throw things in the water and scream for hours. But in the end, I just let the tears come as they always do, making their own misguided paths down my face. I crumble, leaning on a stump nearby and smack the flat surface with my frail, shaking hands. I surrender. I let my heart bleed, here in this forest. Here on this stump.

       Every day is another day she is gone. Away from this life, missing every opportunity and freedom every child should know. But today is a day that we used to celebrate life. First it was one year, then eight. I should have held each year tighter, celebrated each birthday as if I knew the truth of its scarcity. She was stolen from me and never got to be nine years old. Her sweet face never reached puberty; her small hands were frozen in time as we laid her to rest. Bits of my shredded heart lie with her.

       I look up at the water, calm and cool unlike me. I rub my hands against the mess of my face that I have created. I breathe quietly, feeling the anguish leave my body in each exhale but knowing that the hollow caverns of my core will always be there. I rise up cautiously and look to the left where a tree similar to Zoe’s favorite climbing tree goes on living without her. And I turn around to go and do the same.

**This fictional short story was submitted into a writing contest based on this picture prompt.