The morning light of life peeked into his home. He rolled onto Vanessa’s side of the bed and let her arms envelope him. Pressing his face into her pillow, he felt her warm cheek on his. Her hand ran through his thick hair and faintly squeezed the back of his neck. Though his aging back screamed, his decrepit joints stomped, and his shooting pains cried out, the light, youthful laugh of Vanessa picked him up from the bed and opened the blinds of the house, allowing the early sun to massage its deepest corners. In the other room, a needle fell onto a record. The walls hummed along while the dust lifted off of each dormant necklace and earring in the drawers. Every smile in every black and white wedding photo appeared brighter. The sound of Vanessa’s favourite songs waltzed through the halls of the empty house while he rubbed the back of his smooth, bald head. He looked at his own reflection in the bathroom mirror and saw the imperceptible wrinkle which appeared in Vanessa’s eye whenever she smiled; the wrinkle he saw when they shared their first dance, when they bought their first home, and when each of their children were brought into the world.
He limped down the old, creaky stairs, as the spry Vanessa held his arm and kept him upright, guiding every slow step he made. Though he felt too weary to cook, he smelt fresh eggs and ham on the pan wafting throughout the kitchen. It swirled with the powdery and gentle perfume he had come to love. The aroma drew him into the kitchen where he approached the stove, painstakingly reaching onto the highest drawer shelf to fetch a spatula and begin cooking a meal. He retrieved his solitary plate and embraced every bite of his breakfast.
Stepping out the front door in her favourite suit, the smell of freshly cut grass and joy filled his nose. He used his cane to painfully hobble down his front steps, and watched Vanessa, untouched by age, out by the sidewalk painting their mailbox for the first time. His kids played in the paint, flinging wild red and yellow streaks from their fingertips on top of Vanessa’s neat lavender brushstrokes. He loved his street. He loved every morning walk he took on it each day for the past 60 years, each one with his beloved Vanessa by his side. Every stroll became more laboring and difficult, yet his enjoyment of them never wavered. He and Vanessa lovingly spent the day together in the grass as they always did. He spoke his poetic, devoted words to her, and she would listen.
As the sun returns to the comforting touch of the horizon, the endless purple and orange sky kiss his cloudy, worsening eyes. Sitting in his backyard, he remembers how much he loved to read. He picks out some of his former favourite books and journals, and holds the pages close in front of his face while Vanessa fills the ink of each word. Her voice whispers magnificent stories of yesterday’s Kings and Queens, and chronicles to him fables of the world’s greatest tales of love from long ago. His eyes sore from reading, he places the books down and takes his cigar. He watches the smoke twist and contort in the air, and in every dancing, gray stream he sees a beautiful curl from the head of his Vanessa. Tired, he closes his eyes and falls asleep in the caressing breeze without saying goodnight, knowing Vanessa will still be there tomorrow morning.
