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by Eleanor, aged 12

I usually love coming here, but not today.

This is the one place I can come without anyone staring at me. Nature doesn’t judge.
Beams of sunshine break through the darkness of the woods, trying to show me a hint of happiness. Not today.

A couple walk past, smiling. I force a smile back, then throw my hands into my pockets. Not today.

I wander down the path, where my favourite bench is.

To my annoyance, an old lady is already sitting there. I quickly check my scarf is still covering my left cheek. I perch on the end of the bench, hoping she won’t stay long.

She smells of lavender hand cream and her wrinkles smile on her face, like she’s permanently happy. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch her looking at me.

“Ah, just look at that view. Isn’t that beautiful.” She says, attempting to engage me in a conversation.

It’s true. I look out over the fields, the dappled light perfecting every tiny detail of wildlife and beauty.

She smiles what I would call a shiny smile. My face falls even lower.

“Shouldn’t you be here with someone else?” She asks.

She hasn’t noticed it yet.

“I don’t have anyone else,” I sigh, struggling to hide my past, but my history is etched across my face, like an eternal memory.

I sit up straighter and adjust the scarf that covers my cheek.

She’s noticed.

She doesn’t look away, though, like so many do.

Is this what friendship feels like? I’ve read about it in magazines, but never really felt it before.
“Beauty comes in many forms”, she continues. “Each of us sees the world differently. Some of us like cold, crisp mornings and others only the warmth of the sun.”

A tear slowly rolls down my cheek. The salty water trickles into my mouth and the drops keep on coming until my tears pour like a waterfall; uncontrollable and unstoppable.

The lady holds out an embroided handkerchief. My eyes, still misty with tears, find it hard to decipher the beautiful hand-sewn letters in the top left-hand corner. I mumble, thanks and sniff loudly.

The lady smiles sympathetically.

“Take a risk”, she tells me as she slowly gets up, cracking her knuckles and straightening her legs.
Suddenly, I realise I still have her handkerchief.

I try to spot her amongst the leafy path and bramble bushes, but she has vanished. I am once again alone.

Now my eyes are cleared, the embroided stitching is visible. Margaret Goddard. I run my hand over the silk, admiring its beauty.

After weeks of uncertainty, I suddenly feel strong and my mind is made up.

“I can do this,” I say out loud.

As the sun begins to set, the light on the name-plate shimmers like silver and catches my eye. My fingers trace the warm, metal plate. A shiver runs down my spine as I read…

Margaret Goddard
“She loved the beauty of this place”
1945-2013