by Sascha Reinhard
A secret smile flicks across my lips every time I walk over you. The river murmurs beneath in a joyful melody, accompanying the scuff of my boots on unsmoothed cobblestone. Time will dull the edges and the pain, but not my memory of the price I bid you pay. I let my fingers caress the rough grain of the parapet, lingering on two chiselled letters lost among the hearts and names left by others’ far more transient passion.
Between us rests the cutwater atop a foundation of poured cement. That’s where I buried you, to be remembered by me alone.
Sascha Reinhard has a love for the written word in a rather literal sense given his study of palaeography. Ancient tomes, scraps of parchment, a faded letter from the time of the Avignon Papacy. These are far more exciting to him than the stereotypical German pastimes of beer and football.