There is no Epiphany

The fell top is grey rock and grass, a tall slim tree.

Behind Mark, higher, darker fells pile up. Below him the valley, lake guarded by hills on all sides.

Eating half a pasty, he places the other on lichen-patterned rock. Oatcakes and honey the same. Ten years ago, they scattered his mother’s ashes here.

Cutting an apple into halves, he adds one to his mother’s meal, the other cold and crisp in his mouth.

Bad tempered and tired, there was no ceremony. His dad tipped the plastic urn, strong wind whipping the remains around them like sand. The remaining three stood, silent and adrift, waiting. Afterward, they walked into the valley to drink and eat.

Chewing Opal Fruits, he shares out the bright coloured squares.

What I have lost I now accept, he thinks. I am alive and she is dead.

Closing his eyes, Mark thinks of all the things that will never be. He will never transform into a beautiful woman, kiss another man again, or travel into space.

She will not come back.

Opening his eyes, everything is clear and sharp. Wind blows ripples like stretch marks across the lake.

Meal over, a lost boy, Mark cries.