The Time of Change

The Little Fire Beneath the Weeping Willow

The sun is so bright today that it almost feels like summer, although it's early March. There is a wind that makes it slightly brisk, cooling the heat from the sun's rays, and it ruffles the pristine, manicured green grass sprawling around me. Tiny persistent wildflowers bloom between cracks in the sidewalk at the edge of the little field, and the trees, though relatively bare after the harsh winter, are graceful. It's as if they are dancing in the breeze that rocks them, coercing anyone and everyone that passes to enter into their clutches. I wish I could say I was one of the stronger ones who most often resist the temptation.

My mind flits to Clara for a panicked moment before I calm myself, reminding my inner voice of doubt that she's in the TARDIS, which is parked far from this spot. She's preoccupied with looking for a book that doesn't exist on my infinite shelves.

Why I had to lie about this, I cannot say. I just did.

After a few moments of walking, I finally spot her near the very far right corner of this stretch of greenery. She is positioned under a magnificent weeping willow tree whose buds have begun to bloom timidly from its thin, wispy branches. It is the only tree here that has brightened to welcome the spring. Immediately, my unsteady pace slows to a cool, collected stroll. By the time she is within ten feet, I must appear to be the most unconcerned man in the world. I nod smilingly at her mother as I pass, a small sign of acknowledgement and respect. Now if only the incessant pounding of my hearts in my chest would cease, maybe my hands would stop trembling, and maybe my fingertips wouldn't appear as fragile and shakable as the long-dead leaves of these hibernating trees.

I plop down about a foot or so in front of her—just close enough to sate me while still far enough to be respectable. I don't have to ask if it's alright that I join her; she already knows that I know she will say yes. I look at her in silence for a while, drinking in how much her appearance has changed since last time. The midday sunlight splays across her gently, casting shadows in the most impossibly flattering ways. Clasping my hands in front of me in my lap to hide the shivering, I take a deep breath and attempt to start up a conversation.

"I'm getting better," I tell her as confidently as I can. "I am better, compared to a few years ago. Sorry it's been so long, by the way. I was a wreck last time... Well, can you blame me?" I give a single humorless chuckle, then continue, "It's getting easier, I think. After a while, you just stop thinking about it so much. It's kind of like losing an appendage. There are still ghost pains and whatnot, of course, but—"

A soft, gentle voice breaks through the others in my head, whispering, Stop.

I half-sigh, smiling dismally down at the grass between my crossed legs. "You're not even here, and you're still saving me from bad decisions," I murmur. I train my eyes on the sight before me: the single, bright white rose that is almost loudly visible in front of the marbled granite of the headstone. It's growing from the ground, from her grave. I can't remember if I planted that there. It would not surprise me if it just bloomed from her—if it had come to be from what she was. I do know that it should not be in bloom right now. It's too early in the year. Somehow it doesn't matter, though. All that matters is what is written on that headstone.

Here lies

Annalise Mae Song

and child

16 February 1987 – 31 December 2014

Now and forever a flame in the dark

I read it and reread it, yet it never seems like enough. "Little fire" was an affectionate nickname I gave her in my second regeneration, a shockingly accurate depiction ofher fiery and passionate but gentle soul, so I tried to incorporate that into what was engraved on this faceless stone. Those two words, however, can only say so much. I tried to do her justice, to encapsulate everything that she was within a sentence, but it was pointless. How could I ever describe everything about her in so little space? I would need a thousand gravestones—ten thousand. But all I had was this one, so I did what I could. Then there's the matter of her birth and death dates. Neither are accurate, but that is not where my squabble is. It is the fact that all that lies between them is a single centimeter-long dash. That is supposed to represent everything she did. How can a line so short and thin stand for a life so full? How is that fair? How does it make sense? There is no logic there, no wisdom, no rationality. Where will it be written that she was selflessly, fiercely kind? How will that line convey that she had a sense of humor that was the most improbable mixture of dorky and hilarious, so much so that she would have your sides hurting with laughter? Who will tell people that she was braver than any hero in history and the future? Where will all of this be recorded? Will anyone other than me remember? Does anyone even know?