A man still grieves over the loss of his only child
His daughter's headstone was green; her favorite color had been pink.
The spanish moss hung over her grave like a deathshroud, blocking out all light. Here, in the field of the dead, all colors seemed to fade to black.
Overshadowed by gloom, spiderwebbed by frost.
Her father daydreamed; of his lovely child, so young, so vibrant, full of life. His dreams turned quickly into nightmares.
But the dreams, good or bad, were all he had left.
Just memories. Colors.
He would come every Sunday, a sketchpad in one hand, a bouquet of flowers in the other.
He would search his dreams, his memories, for pictures of her. Then, he would search his colored pencils for the right ones to sketch a picture of her, bring her back to life.
But she was always still dead.
He will be back next Sunday, to sketch some new pictures.