The written loom

In the Golden Fields of the End

The light was falling low, not shining, but glinting like a promise..

Rose walked among the wheat, each stalk swaying slowly, as if it recognized her..

There was no need to remember.. Her body remembered..

“You’ll remember me when the west wind moves…”

She didn’t sing aloud.. Only her lips moved, as if giving rhythm to her steps..

That song was not just a song.. It was the place.. It was the field.. It was the way a promise was once spoken, and never kept..

And yet.. she never held anger..

“I never give promises lightly…” she had said.. And she meant it..

What life could not keep, Rose held in her hands..

But not tightly.. Not like those who grasp out of fear.. She held it like a seed, and planted it in silence.. In that field of golden stalks, nothing screamed.. Not pain.. Not love.. Everything felt like it had already been said, and yet no one had truly heard it back then..

Now, the earth was whispering it all back..

Rose sat down.. Her fingers brushed the wheat the way bodies once touched..

And within her rose a rhythm, not of sorrow, but of deep acceptance..

Some love only for a while.. Some give love the way the sun gives light to fields: without holding anything back..

And that is Rose..

She never needed anything in return.. She never wrote songs hoping they’d be sung back to her..

But if you happen to pass through that field, if the wind stirs and the sun falls low, you may see a figure walking, with the silence of a great love and the melody of a promise kept in quietness..

“And I swear, in the days still left, I will walk in fields of gold…” 

yours,

Rose

P.S. My thanks to A.K. for the wheat field photo he shared with me.. It became the light and silence behind this story..