He built it, brick by brick.
Carved from boulders in the valley or stones found weathered by time… He stacked them. Each one a testament to his regrets.
He spent his life there, in those mountains, building walls to shut out the world he regretted not being a part of. The one he left when his wife was murdered.
He taught his son the art of isolation, sorrow, and disappointment. And, together, they worked on those walls.
When he died, his son continued the tradition, creating something so spectacular, it rivaled nearby castles.
He held fast to what he had been taught.
But, unlike his father, he planted a seed of hope which grew into a fine tree. Sturdy and beautiful. Clinging to sorrow, growing out of the pile of regrets. It survived where it should not have. Some say it was magic. Others, that it was simply hope.
“Do you want to know what I think?”
“What do you think, grandpa?”
“I think that this magic and hope people talk about when they see my tree…I think they are the same thing.”
My attempt at #writephoto, a weekly writing prompt for poetry/flash/short stories hosted by Sue Vincent