The last Picnic.

The higher clouds are etched in pink, while the lower ones are already dark, below the suns reach as it speeds toward the horizon, taking with it the temperature.

 

Thankfully the wind has gone, but it will be a bitterly cold night. I’ll lie, as I do most nights, with the heavy sleeping bag pulled tightly about me, with nothing but the top of my woollen hat protruding.

 

The morning dew will be slow to dry in the weak winter sun, and I’ll have to be on the move early just to stay warm.

 

Heading west, ever west, toward the coast and what promises may lie there.

 

The promise of food, fish that are easier to catch than the wary rabbits and birds that I have been scarcely surviving on, and sea weed, hopefully sea weed will be abundant upon the rocks, and a boat.

 

Definitely, there must be a boat.

 

I craw into my sleeping bag to conserve what little heat I still have and, as I close my eyes, I say a silent prayer. I pray that I will not dream again of the past.

 

But in vain I had prayed, for as soon as I fell asleep I was back on that red and blue blanket spread beneath the old Oak tree, the sun dappling through the leaves, the air fragrant with the scent of Honeysuckle. The remnants of the picnic littering the blanket, a half eaten chicken sandwich on a paper plate, a scattering of crumbs, all that remains of the sweet cake, and the empty flask lying disguarded on its side in the grass.

 

The children, tired now from their energetic game of tag have climbed into the lower branches of the tree and we can hear them chattering and giggling as they plan the tree house they will build there.

 

My wife leans across and kisses me lightly on the lips. I reach for her, my arm sliding around her waist, pulling her to me. We kiss again, not the urgent hungry kisses of our youth but affectionate, loving kisses.

 

We lie back, arms around each other, her head resting on my shoulder, her perfumed hair tickling my nose. We do not sleep, but neither are we fully awake. We can still hear the chatter of the children; still feel the warm breeze on our skin.

 

It is in that moment when two men, intoxicated with their own importance, and believing that they alone could rule the world, gambled everything that mankind had achieved and with one throw of the Nuclear dice destroyed the very thing they desired.

 

I wake with a shudder. Cold tears are running down my cheeks. I quickly cast off the sleeping bag, for I know that if I lie here, the tears will quickly become sobs, the sobs will become cries of anguish, screams of desperation, that man could be so stupid as to risk all that we had.

 

All of our plans and dreams, those that we loved, and those that loved us, have gone, in the blink of an eye. The thousands of years of mankind’s development, millions of years of evolution, obliterated, as if it had never happened.

 

I gather my few possessions and throw them onto my back and set off walking into the cold darkness of the night.

 

Heading west, ever west, toward the coast, and what promises may lie there.