Will you remember me when I’m gone?
Published in
Dec 18, 2021
Reaching the top of the hill, gasping, red-cheeked, for air, the runner stops to perch delicately on the damp green-mossed wooden seat, bending low to tighten the laces of his trainers.
A terrier cocks a muddy leg against the bench: a pointlessly short, infuriating, piss.
Later, as the day grows cool and the sky loses its colour, a couple sit entwined. “I’ll keep you warm” he says. She giggles, murmurs, snuggles closer.
After everyone has gone home, the words whisper, unheard, into the night: Joan Browning, 1937–2013, loved to sit here and watch the view.
