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  • Marie Smysor Watson

blades - 100 words

Updated: May 1


Watching someone you love being spirited away on a Lifeflight helicopter conjures a mixed bag of emotions - despair for the life you are leaving behind and hope that the new one coming won't irreparably break your heart. Twelve years on, all I know is that we've made it through. And that's good enough for this life, eh, my love?



The stunted grass pokes at my feet in their improper March footwear. Why has the grass already been cut? The trees still cling to their buds.


The blades begin their rhythmic thwomp-thwomp. The front doors open, the blanket covering him is nothing, paper. He will be cold. A woman, young, hair smooth, bends low over him as she walks beside. I’m jealous of their closeness. I must stand back. They clamber in, and all are lifted up, gone.


I walk to the car, the blades of grass clinging. I must follow, too slowly, my bleeding heart tethered to the ground.






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