Lost (Friday Fictioneers, September 2014)

Copyright Janet Webb

I’ve wandered through a mist of confusion… seems like days now.

I remember the coffin, the flowers, the faces of cherished friends, ravaged with grief, mouths moving silently, senselessly.

There’s this feeling that I should do something, go somewhere, but I can’t quite focus on what or where.

I’m lost without you.

But then the door opens, and I see your tired, beloved face.

My heart leaps; it’s all been a dreadful mistake. I knew it.

I move towards you, joyfully.

I must look a mess, I think, glancing at the mirror.

And then I realise.

It’s not you. It’s me.

Sorry to have missed last week’s Friday Fictioneers get-together.  An unseasonal appearance of Le Mistral sent us running for shelter on the Rhone, with winds of 55 kmh, gusting to 94 at times.  When it blew itself out, after three days, we had to try to make up for lost time on our journey down to the Mediterranean.  Today, still on the boat but perched twenty feet up in the air, I hope to participate, courtesy of the chantier’s internet connection.