The bench at the top of the hill

On a clear day you can just about make out the city clawing at the sky. 

A red light flashing, like a distant warning. 

Apart from that the sillhouettes of hills and trees sit against the blue, emblazened like the aftermath of a camera flash. 

A bench is here, at the top of this hill. It is dedicated to a woman named Patricia. 

She died 15 years ago. 

The bench is solid, well made, thick wood that looks almost as though it has grown from the ground in this shape. 

It would be a hell of a place to sit if today wasn't so bitterly cold. 

But something is on the bench. 

Flowers with colours so bright against the frost. Reds and blues that look like paint straight from the tube. 

Attached to the flowers is a note.

'Merry Christmas Trisha. We miss you.'

I turn back to look at the view. Blurred. 

I think about these people I will never know.