He watches from this place. Where—he’s not certain, and he drifts and wanders, but never far from this spot. Something happened here, he thinks.
He doesn’t know how long he’s been here, or what was before. He notices others like him here. They nod to each other, sharing a bond. . .of some sort.
What is that sound? Oh yes, that’s called music. He thinks it’s something he used to like. I remember—yes, I used to. . . sing.
He watches as people gather. A woman dressed in black wipes her face. A small boy stands next to her holding a flag.
Something happened here, he thinks again.
And as the leaves blow and whisper in the breeze, he remembers—these memories were left here with the trees. The woman’s eyes open wide as he gently kisses her, and then disappears forever.
This is my prosery piece for my dVerse prompt, using the line “These memories were left here with the trees” from the poem “How to Write a Poem in a Time of War” by Jo Harjo. When I walk in the park, sometimes I think memories whisper from the trees.