PhotoPrompt: 38.4

Along the Aure River in Switzerland

Elise roamed down the river path, looking carefully at each marker. 

38.1…38.2…  Reaching 38.4 was all that mattered to her.  He would be at 38.4 when the sun went behind the hills to the west. 

Lengthening shadows from ancient oaks told her that time was passing, just as the river current that flowed so close to the path.  Elise began to jog, peering through the dappled shadows to the next marker.

38.3!  Almost there!  Elise began to pant with the exertion.  Keep looking ahead!  He must be there!  After all these years, Franz is coming home to me!

Long war years had passed and now they both were old.  But, Franz had finally come home.

The pain in her chest struck her down before she knew it.  Dropping like a stone, Elise rolled into the swift river to be forever swept away.

Franz watched and waited, looking back and forth down the dark path.  When the sun had set and the moon was overhead, Franz sighed.   He headed up the path, using his cane as he went. 

Oh, Elise!  Why didn’t you come?  I have waited for decades for you.

PhotoPrompt Monday: The Stone Angel

From Delores at "myfeatherednest"

Every Sunday without fail, Catherine Henner drove twenty-five miles to Hatfield Cemetery.  With a jam jar of garden flowers, Catherine found the headstone marked “Butchart” and the stone carved angel. 

Placing the flowers at the base, Catherine would pause to pray for this nameless baby buried beneath.  Then Catherine would walk over the grassy graves back to her car.

Catherine did this for years.

One day, another lady introduced herself as “Eleanor” and asked about her weekly trips, as she herself made Sunday pilgrimages to her mother’s grave and had seen Catherine.  “Is this little one from your family?”

Catherine pondered the question.  “Yes, I guess she is.”  Seeing Eleanor’s perplexed expression, Catherine explained.

“When my grandmother was dying, she told me about this tiny grave here in Hatfield, of her first-born baby girl who lived only an hour.  She made me promise to visit this grave every Sunday.” 

“So sad when a baby dies.  Your Grandmother Butchart must have loved this little girl very much.”  Eleanor called after Catherine as she walked away.

Catherine stopped and turned around.  “Butchart was her maiden name.  We never knew about this baby she had when she was fourteen, after she was raped by a cousin.” Catherine sighed.  “Yes, it is sad.”

Sorry to take such a dark turn here.  This was something I told about long ago, about something that happened before I was born.  A mother never forgets her baby, no matter what.

Please check out http://mybabyjohn.blogspot.com  from where the above photo came.