Whispered Prayers

By Peter Bowden

He parked just past the curve of the path where the lanterns began, their soft glow lining the way like hushes laid gently on the earth. The forest was still, the kind of stillness that wraps around grief without speaking its name. Ahead, the red Japanese maple shimmered with light, its branches lit from within, a quiet blaze against the deepening dusk. He stood for a moment, keys loose in his hand, watching as the wind stirred the leaves like breath.

The bench beneath the tree was empty, waiting. He moved toward it slowly, the sound of his steps muffled by pine needles and time. In his coat pocket, the small bouquet of fresh flowers bumped gently with each step, wrapped in paper she would’ve chosen—something soft, something simple. He paused just off the path, tucked beside slender dogwoods, their white blossoms long since gone. He knelt, brushing back the fallen needles, and set the flowers down. Then he sat, not speaking yet, just listening to the hush, the lights in the tree above glowing like held-back tears.

When he finally spoke, it was with the ease of old love. He told her about the beagle, slower now, but still circling the porch twice before every nap. He talked of the tomatoes that hadn’t come in right and the neighbor who sang too loud. He told her about the ache, still there, yes, but changing shape—rounding its edges, letting in the light. He sat until the night pressed soft against his shoulders. Then he stood, touched the top of the bench, and whispered her name before walking back down the path, the tree behind him still burning gently against the dark.


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