Lambden Park

Sometimes the fondest memories are of the ones that have been left but are never truly left behind. This is a story that follows the memory of a loved one. Proof that even the smallest things matter.

He gazed out his fifth-story window onto the lamplit street below. Streaks of light sped by his apartment, like race cars on the midnight strip. Local drunks and angry hookers yelled from down the road. The rattling of metal trash cans and glass bottles by mischievous alley cats filled the empty air. Even a car alarm rang from a nearby hijacker making a living sounded. 

Through all this distracting noise pollution, his focus was on the wooden bench at Lambden Park. A single daydream crawled to the forefront of his memories. The warmth of her hand wrapped inside his as they walked the city streets at night, just leaving the Guinness Pub between fourth and tenth. 

He remembered how they would spend hours talking about life as they lay underneath the stars. Or the moment where wind passed through their hair as they swung like children at the playground. He could still hear her angelic laughter echo inside his memories as if she were still there. 

Lambden park was their sanctuary to escape from the tortures of the world. Until the warmth in her hands died, and they slowly slipped away from his own upon her bedside.

Author's Note

Do you feel this is a complete story? Bare in mind, my stories specialize in telling them in thirteen sentences.