The Fool on the Hill (v2)

 

It had been almost six months since he jumped. No one had known how he felt. She’d read the note he put under a brick on the roof. He’d talked about his reasons and how sorry he was, but she didn’t find any answers there.

 

It had been a big funeral. Hundreds of mourners came offering condolences, talking about how sorry they were and how they wished they’d known something was wrong. She smiled weakly and nodded, letting their words wash over her. She felt like she was the one who had died, not him.

 

Standing here, looking at his headstone, his absence from her life was almost tangible: a malevolent gargoyle perched upon her shoulder, claws digging deep.

 

A life reduced to a name, two dates, and an epitaph: “May He Know Peace.” She flung the flowers she’d brought down in the dirt and sank to her knees, sobbing and screaming. When the tears stopped, she spoke, softly, as if she was afraid speaking the words out loud would make them too real: “I wish you’d trusted me enough to let me in. I wish peace was something I felt like you deserved.” She pressed her forehead to the cold, gray stone, and cried a while longer.

 

Finally, she got up from the soft green grass. A slight breeze rustled the branches of the tree they’d buried him beneath on the hill. Before she turned to go, she put a note under a brick on top of his headstone.