Photo by Annie Spratt on Unsplash
I stared at the faded roses in the centre of the table. My cup of coffee was cooling in front of me. Tonight was the last night of the dark of the moon. Perhaps it wouldn’t work.
I sat immobile, staring at the fallen petals surrounding the plain black vase. I had made a deal. I should get the results before the last petal fell. Outside the sun was setting. I needed to get up and close the curtains but somehow, after all the weeks since the funeral, I couldn’t quite find the will to move.
I watched another petal drop. I had worked so hard, risked so much, lost so much. I couldn’t bear to see it fail. Another petal dropped. I looked down at my hands. I had lost weight over the last month. My hands looked like claws and my wedding ring was loose.
The room was getting darker. I needed to stand up. I needed to close the curtains, switch on the light, sweep up the fallen petals and admit my failure. I briefly closed my eyes. How could I have failed him so badly? But I had done all I could. I had thrown everything into this.
Outside the wind was rising. I could hear a sighing of the trees. It was all the more reason to push myself to my feet and take care of the house. To go through the motions of closing curtains and lighting the fire as the temperature dropped. I gripped the edge of the table and forced my head to move. By a massive effort of will I looked out of the window. I could hear the sighing of the wind, but the trees were not moving. Moving became easier. I looked back at the table as another petal dropped.
I managed to push myself to my feet. My joints ached and my head swam but I stood and looked fully out of the window. The last gleam of the sun’s rays slipped down and I heard a soft tap at the door. My dead love had come back.
