Airborne leaves, twigs and branches buffeted my car. Rain and hailstones lashed my screen splashed curses, You’ll fail, you’ll fail through my ears, to fractured nerves.
This storm, six weeks old and growing, violent, way beyond the ken of the oldest of our elders.
I had to reach her. Grandmother, cut off, on the mountain’s high ridged shoulder. She, who’d held me tight, raised me through each season of my childhood. Now, she needed me.
I braked to take a bend, skidded, nearly hit a tree. Red dashboard lights flashed: my tank nigh drained out and fifteen miles to go.
I played the gears, freewheeled, but ten miles the car rutted to a standstill. I stumbled out, sank, knee deep, in muddy despair.
I remembered her face and floundered on.
Her cottage was bare. On her chair, a note, in shaky script, undeniably her hand. She’d walked out, to reach me. She was gone.
For love, she’d braved the death throws of our mother, Earth.
Ceinwen lives in Newcastle upon Tyne, UK, and writes short stories and poetry. She has been widely published in web magazines and in print anthologies. She graduated with an MA in Creative Writing from Newcastle University in 2017. She believes everyone’s voices counts. Twitter: @CeinwenHaydon