Every Wednesday, I set aside 15 minutes to free write. No agenda, no pressure to edit, just me and the page (screen). I hope you’ll join me. Post your 15 minutes of writing and use #WriteAWhileWednesday so we can follow along, or post a link in the comments below. Here we go…
They’d been married sixty-seven years, to the day. It felt like any other Thursday, except he wasn’t here. A dim band of young sunlight draped the small breakfast table overlooking the antique roses. She loved this time of morning when the dew was fat on the petals and clung to fresh webs.
Over her shoulder the lazy grandfather clock chimed a new hour, still early for most. Silent crumbs from her toast fell into her weathered hand, bony fingers closing around them on their way to the trash. Her ring needed cleaning. It was time for their walk.
The sun heavy on the horizon painted the morning sky in strokes of pink and orange. He called it the “Artist’s hour.” A new creation every morning. A pair of long-necked egrets silhouetted against the bright sunrise fished on the banks of the pond at the end of the deep yard. Their beaks broke slow ripples on the glassy water. As she neared the path at the water’s edge one stood tall and met her gaze.
“Hello, Gladys.” The bird dipped its head gracefully back to her task.
Tender-footed steps fell on a path carpeted by damp leaves, just wide enough for two to walk side by side. But today it was just one. One misty breath. One walking stick. One small, faithful voice singing.
“And He walks with me,
and He talks with me,
and He tells me I am His own.
And the joy we share
as we tarry there,
none other has ever known.”
The sun was taller and boasting bright rays when she rounded the final bend of the pond. The house on the hill looked as old as she felt. The sun was at her back as she climbed with a hand on the rail he built last year. It willed her forward, told her there was living to be done today. And, indeed, there was.