by living-glass

He whipped out a good handful of peanut butter, spreading it on the exact half of the bread, the other half with strawberry jam.

That was how she used to like it. He never understood why, not even until this very day. 

He did the usual, coffee for two, but of course, lesser sugar for her. “I need to taste the definition of bitter from the caffeine and the sweetness of my peanut butter and jam sandwich.” 

He organised the forks and spoons, placing their breakfast out on the table.

A beautiful, sunny morning it was. Not much of a crowd, really. A natural glow with golden specks of dust dancing in the sunshine. It was a silence comfortable for him, and he knew it was comfortable for her.

“It’s time to eat Margaret.” He then started flipping through the papers, waiting for her to finish her meal before he started on his. It was a tradition, he wanted to make sure she would not start buzzing away about the new neighbours moving in or her son’s recent marriage.

He would always remain close-mouthed, the most a nonchalant groan of acknowledgement, face hidden behind the bold, intimidating headlines. As taciturn as he was, and still is, he wished he saw more of her emerald eyes, the natural rolls and curls that fell over her shoulders, or maybe the way her hands moved when she was overly-engrossed in her own silly conversations, mostly with herself.

He cleared up after, and was preparing to go out. 

He wore what he did as always, a nice brown leather jacket with a blue sweatshirt, probably one he had since the war ended, black slacks, and a comfortable pair of loafers. He struggled a little on his walking stick that could only support half his body weight, slipping on his winter gloves and hat.

They stopped by Aunt Macey’s floral shop again.

He picked out lilies this time round, one of her favourites.

The clouds were unrelenting, deciding to unleash pelts that came skyrocketing down.

Slowly, but steadily, he finally arrived at their meeting point.

He stood infront of her. “We’re here,” he said.

He let the silence drown him. Taking off his hat, pressing it against his shoulders. He bent down, straining to place the bouquet beside her. “They ran out of carnations at Macey’s and it started to rain.” He went on answering her questions about the new neighbours that moved in, about their son’s recent marriage. He smiled a little, complaint a little. He felt live whenever he was with her.

Only that she wasn’t there.

“Sir, it’s time to head back. I’m afraid the rain won’t stop anytime soon,” the nurse told him. He stood there, reminiscing for a while before allowing the nurse to take his arm. They turned around and headed back.

Next Sunday again, perhaps, when the sun is a little kinder. 

Not when the black massive clouds dominated the sky,

Not when the birds flocked to seek shelter,

Not when lightning pierced through and tore open the morning clouds,

Not when the rain seeped through the soil and washed away

All the other lilies and carnations

Around her gravestone.