Wood.

It certainly was high tide, mid-afternoon, but at the time, Anna didn’t associate the crashing storms in her consciousness with any popular song, and least of all by Paul Weller. The first track on the CD that Eleanor ever made for her, in fact the first CD that anyone had ever made for her, warned her that she had to find her way out, of the wild wild wood. She thought that that was what Eleanor was doing, when she took her hand outside the Irish bar several hours later and Anna thought she might have finally found that dream that she could whisper and press her cheek to as the nights started to grow lighter again. Of course, it wasn’t to be. Anna started to feel that it never would be, resigning herself as she walked back past the same high tide a year later to just drifting along like a forgotten piece of timber, perhaps once a part of something majestic, perhaps intended to be tacked onto something, but now just drifting along on the rarely-still, rarely-glinting ocean, tossed and broken and blown any which way by whatever the weather seemed to want to do with her.

Of course, there was no Eleanor now. Unless Anna counted the faded blue ink that spattered her handwriting over various picture postcards pinned up and hidden away. She certainly did fly by in the traffics boom, a casual reminder of which crackled at her from her now-retro Walkman, that she had painstakingly copied the CD onto, in order to preserve it, in order to preserve what they once had. Or thought they had. Anna didn’t know any more, and there was nobody left to ask who would have been able to tell her.

Past the seafront café she walked, where they had shared coffee and copies of the Independent and the Guardian and whatever else headlines had caught their eye that morning, wrapped up in matching stripey scarves and keeping a respectable distance of a few inches between hands that delighted one another; just not here. That’s what she had always said. Not here. In case. In case of what, Anna never found out, but Eleanor was certainly afraid of something out there by the waves. Perhaps feeling. Perhaps consciousness. Perhaps of finding her way out of the wild wild wood. Or running deeper into it. There is a saying, Anna pulled a face as she remembered, that you can only run halfway into the woods, as after halfway, you are running out again. She must be running in circles then, as the thickets and brambles in her imagination in now way felt like any form of escape.

Past the multicoloured yachts they used to talk feverishly about owning, of being members of the prestigious yacht club that would sneer as they didn’t have Ugg boots and tiny pet poodles to put in their handbags; they were all churchgoers and town councillors and far too good to mingle with the populace. Anna smiled again, Eleanor never had high aspirations. Happy to trudge about in wellies walking the dog, happy to throw a clump of sand at her head and interrupt a good walk with a laugh and a splosh through the sea; that was Eleanor.

The tree at the corner of the green, that depressingly, had a car park sign tacked to the front of it now, concealing initials carved with a spoon, an A and an E, childishly, hacked into the trunk. They had posed for photographs next to that scrawled declaration of their love, fingers as intertwined as the scrolling script was, in a rare public display of affection.

Climbing, forever trying.. Sitting in a tree grinning like an idiot, holding Eleanor’s bobble hat out of her reach. She wasn’t built for climbing, unlike Anna, who was small and wiry and laughing at the memory of Elle pretending to be cross with her and storm away, only to have rotten apples hurled at her head by a laughing Anna, who didn’t laugh now as she remembered, only ached inside with an emptiness, a longing to hear that laugh again in a place where it didn’t cound different every time, like an old cassette tape being played over and over, dust and age grinding down the quality until only a ghost of what was once real and true remains.

Paul Weller had told them then, that day by day their world would fade away. Anna sat down now, wishing she could stop thinking, and scuffed the woodchips with her trainers as she swung on the child’s swing in the playground. Grief overwhelms a person, she thought, kicking her legs out to take herself higher and pulling her knees in to draw back into herself. It cannot be too good to grieve, despite what they say; to purge ones soul of happiness. It certainly felt that way. People told her to cry, people who smiled as though they understood, and told her it would be better with time. Time. Funny thing, time. They used to spend time, listening to Paul Weller, reading poetry to one another; she remembered Elle whispering to her as she fell asleep most nights, poetry about night trains and eiderdowns and forests and charms. And stories. There were always plenty of those. Stories of days gone by, before Anna and Eleanor were Anna and Eleanor, memories to while ones time away to, stories to dream together by a well-cliched and well stoked fire.

Fresh air, they all suggested now, and cups of tea. With lots of sugar, for shock. The British answer to everything. Car crashes, divorces, til death us do part, sit down, go for a walk, have a cup of tea.

High tide, mid afternoon, and all the songs in the world wouldn’t bring her back now.

--another writer's circle assignment, whipped up in 20 minutes and serving to suitably depress most people in the room. Hoorah.