The Writer and the Harp

A tune played in my mind, comforting and nostalgic. I could hear the harp being plucked as if it were being played right beside me.

I wanted it out of my head. I didn’t want to listen to it, and yet, the images it brought back were fond ones.

I didn’t know what I felt.

Did I want to discard these homely memories, or did I want to bask in their warmth? Was the warmth going to fade?

Was I going to be left in the dark?

“Stand where the peaks meet the sky, and the rocks reach the sea…”

The melody ran along fluidly along the corridors of my mind, trying to wash out the stains of grief with what it hoped was a solution of kindness.

“Where the rivers run clear, and the bracken is gold in the sun – and cares of tomorrow must wait, till this day is done.”

I felt another tear or two trickle down my cheeks at the silent song, and I didn’t bother to wipe them away.

I felt something curl up in my lap.


I stroked him, trying to memorize the lingering heat.

My best friend.

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