TOO LATE

The morning was cold. The kind that settles into your bones and makes you feel like you’ll never be warm again. Dylan stood by the grave, hands in his pockets, head bowed. His breath came in slow, unsteady plumes. The cemetery was empty except for him and the dead.

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A single rose sat on the stone. The petals were blood red, but the color didn’t matter. Not now. Nothing mattered now.

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He read the name carved into the granite, traced the letters with his eyes. He had said the name a thousand times, whispered it in darkened rooms, shouted it in anger. But now, saying it wouldn’t bring her back.

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Laura.

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He thought of her dark eyes, the way they could see through him. She had loved him once, or at least she said she had. He had loved her too, in his own way, but sometimes love wasn’t enough. Sometimes, words cut deeper than silence. And he had been full of words.

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Words that could never be taken back.

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The night before she died, they had fought again. He could still hear his own voice, cold and sharp, throwing accusations like daggers. She had yelled back, tears in her eyes, but he hadn’t stopped. He should have stopped.

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She had left that night. Walked out into the rain. He had let her go.

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She had never come home.

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The call came in the morning. An accident. A curve in the road. Wet pavement. A car wrapped around a tree.

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Dead on impact.

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Dylan had dropped the phone, but he hadn’t cried. Not then. Not until he saw Laura, pale and still in a casket, her hands folded over her chest like she was already part of the earth.

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Now he stood here, too late for anything that mattered.

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He had a speech prepared. Words about regret. Words about love. But they caught in his throat, useless things. Words had never saved them before. Why should they now?

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The wind picked up, rattling the bare branches above him. The sky was a flat, dull gray. A winter sky. The kind that didn’t promise spring.

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He knelt beside the grave, resting his hand on the cold stone.

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"I'm really sorry," he said.

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The words were small. Too small.

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The wind howled through the cemetery, a strange sound, like something was moaning or crying, or both. Dylan swallowed hard. He had never believed in ghosts.

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Until now.

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He thought he heard her voice, just a whisper, carried on the wind.

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"Too late."

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He stood quickly, his chest tight. It was just the wind, just his own mind punishing him. But as he turned to leave, he swore he felt something watching.

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Not forgiving.

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Not forgetting.

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Just waiting.

 

-Mark Gammill

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Too Late

 

I never thought that I would hear

so many words you said

a testament against a love

now gone and dead.

 

I wish you all the love

your heart can forever hold

it is now too late

to change the end of us

my love, I am now lost

I will not see your dark brown eyes again

or hear the calls from you

like so many nights

a love that you might

have felt was worth more than you did give

I no longer live within a world

with a chance for us to make up for all

we now leave behind

one last call I made to you

but you had no time to perhaps find a way

and so, your words today spoken at my grave 

will not pass through and the tears from you

are all in vain, the regret and pain 

are yours to keep, I'm underground

darkness fills, no subtle sound

a single rose upon a stone

with love you now place

but I’ll never know

you came too late.

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-Mark Gammill