Memory of Spring
By Fewthistle

Author's Note: Challenge Two, Prompt Three at the LiveJournal community even_angels_ .

Spoilers: Season 7, Episodes 17 &18.

March sky, barefoot in blue: I remember how you looked; a curled, unframed photograph tacked up on the wall of my memory. Your face was a study in innocence, in joy, and even in the grainy picture I can see the light in your eyes, a stunning radiance that had nothing to do with the late winter sun overhead, its slanted, pale yellow rays finding their kindred in the streaks of gold in your light brown hair.

You wore blue jeans, and a rumpled white oxford, a little frayed at the cuffs. You took off your shoes, there in that mercurial land of early spring, because you said you wanted to feel the birth of new life, the tufted growth of grass between your toes. Brilliant green, the color of life, you said. You laid your head against the ground, and laughed and told me that you could hear the blades of grass yawning and murmuring, each to the other, how it was too early to be up and about. Too early for spring to come this year.

Too early indeed. Here in this land of late winter frost, there is no sign of spring. Only a faint memory of Aprils past, and a dim hope of Aprils yet to come. The wind is harsh today, belligerent, blowing the tattered remnants of October's glory, now brown and dried, to catch here and there against a stone of dark granite. Like yours.

Slipping off my heavy coat, I sink to the hard earth beside the curved mound under which you lie. Laying my head against the brittle brown of last year's grass, I close my eyes and listen. Listen for the sound of the springing blades whispering, one to the other; and for the sound of your laughing voice, telling me it is too early to look for spring. Too early for new life. Besides, I almost hear you murmur, this is the wrong place to be looking, here among the dead.

The soft caress of an icy finger touches my face. Then another, landing with gentle care against my cheek, just as you used to touch me. A steady swirl of snow falls all around us, wrapping us, you and I, one last time, in a heavy coat of white.

Your voice is a whisper of snow.