A Sad Story Must Be Read
With her frail hands neatly folded in her lap, she sat in the armchair and stared at the faded photograph on the coffee table. She had only one picture of her son, James, left. The hollowness in Eleanor's eyes sharply contrasted with his frozen boyish grin. She had lost him ten years earlier, but the pain had not subsided. It had actually become sharper, cutting more deeply with each passing year. James had been her only child, her light in the darkness. He had always been enthusiastic, a little naughty, but always kind. She still remembered how he used to pick dandelions from the yard, presenting them to her as though they were the rarest of flowers. He would say, his little face beaming with pride, "For you, Mama." As she treasured each moment, Eleanor would always laugh and tuck them behind her ear. But time was cruel. The laughter faded, replaced by the sound of doctors whispering in sterile hallways, the beeping of machines, the hushed tones of condolences. James had been taken from her by cancer before he had even begun his life, like a nighttime thief. Eleanor had pleaded with every god she had ever heard of and begged the heavens, but nothing had changed the outcome. She had sung lullabies into the frigid air while holding his hand as he took his final breath. The world had become hazy after his death. The house, once lively, was now silent. Friends and family had come and gone, offering words of comfort that felt hollow. Grief had made its way into Eleanor's bones and become a permanent fixture. The days bled into each other, and soon, time lost all meaning.
