This used to be the path we took during walks in summer. We used to walk here when the trees were green, and the forest were full of flowers. When there were birds singing in the trees and the rustle of leaves in the air. When the air was warm, and the sun could be seen shining down between the trees. We used to talk and laugh while walking here, deciding which small path to take as we walked along, never sure of where we would end up until we got there, sometimes near the lake, sometimes in a glade, sometimes we made it back to where we started and then we would walk back into the forest again, taking different paths. Usually, we did not decide to go back home until late at evening, when the sun started to set. You always told me that you would remember these walks for as long as you lived.
Today, it feels like the opposite. I walk this path alone, tugging my coat and scarf closer to my body in the cold. The leaves have long since fallen off the trees and the flowers and grass are covered by a layer of snow. It feels eerily empty, now that I have been used to see the leaves in the trees, the absence of them makes the trees feel too far away from each other, too much empty space. The forest felt so much bigger than in the summer, I could see much further between the trees. I felt alone, but not in the cosy and intimate way I used too when we walked together, today I feel all alone, as if I am the only person alive, the loneliness weighting me down with every step. My steps make the snow crackle beneath me. It is almost echoing in the quiet forest, the only other sound being wind in whining as it blows around the bare branches. I have not seen the sun today, in the recent weeks it has only popped out a few minutes at the time, but the last couple of days it has been hiding behind the clouds, making the sky grey.
This time I knew where to walk, which turns and twists to walk down and I soon see the yard in the distance. It’s just outside the forest, the path leading there merging with the wider path from the road. This path is more walked on, it has been walked on enough that the snow has been pressed down and there is almost a layer of ice on some parts. I must tread carefully in the yard. Knowing where you are, I do not make a detour and reach you quickly.
Kneeling, I take out the small blue flowers, dig a little hole in the snow near the stone, and put the flowers down. I brush off the snow from your gravestone and as I have done before I read your name. You may not remember anymore, but I will not forget you.
Linnéa Eklund 