Crimson Strands

         The cold wind blows through the auburn hairs covering the neck of a young woman dressed completely in black as she walks down the long and lonely road. Her knee length skirt flows in the wind and her legs underneath show the goose bumps of early winter in the Midwest. As she walks, her heels click with the harshness that is determination in the heart of loss and grief.
         Walking down the small town streets, she is thinking about the world as a whole. There was once a time when everything seemed to make sense. There were people that made this life worth living and even made it enjoyable. She wishes that she were not heading to this place, but instead to the house where her childhood still lives. Fighting back the tears, she continues on her path. In her hands, she is carrying a blue iris tied with a single red ribbon. As a tear runs down her cheek, she wipes it away with her gloved hand.
         After walking many blocks, she stops in front of her destination, which is definitely not the farm house in the country that holds all of her happy memories, but instead a stone church in a small town. Not a soul on the street to see the lonely girl, just her and the blue iris in her hands. She gains her composure and takes on the short flight of stairs that lead to the stain glassed doors. As she opens the door, it creaks and the congregation inside stops everything to look at the young woman in the entrance. Familiar faces already crying cannot contain the tears at the sight. She walks past the sympathetic wishing from both sides and tries to keep her cool as she makes her way to the altar.
         There in a cherry wood box, she sees the one thing that has changed everything. The face of her past, present and future lies there with eyes closed and peace embodied. Filled with distress, she falls to her knees on the cushioned kneeler. She lays the blue iris in the woman’s hands, sweeps the crimson strands of hair from her forehead and kisses it as a silent goodbye.