Sarah wakes to the cries of Sasha, her beloved little mutt, putting her paws on the side of the bed. Where’s Stanley, Sarah thought, listening for her husband, as she had every day in the two years since he’d died. Stanley always woke early. She would lie in bed, listening to him unloading the dishwasher, going out onto the porch for the paper. Talking to Sasha in that voice that humans use to talk with animals, as he prepares her kibbles. Sasha’s brown eyes following Stanley’s every move, her scruffy ears perked, intently listening.
But the house is quiet, and just like every day since his death, sadness settles in, as she remembers he really is gone.
Sasha wants breakfast, so Sarah rises, slowly from the bed, her creaky bones adjusting to moving again after lying prone overnight. She makes the bed, slips on her worn, but comfortable cotton robe and looks in the mirror. She runs a comb through her hair, tangled from sleep. Why bother, Sarah wonders.
Because she always bothered, before greeting Stanley at the breakfast table. Even after fifty years together, she still felt she owed it to him to look halfway presentable. She thinks he appreciated her efforts; his eyes would smile as he said, “Good morning” when she entered the room. In all those years, there was always a good morning, whether it was true or not.
She still fluffs his pillows when she makes the bed. She still keeps his placemat on the dining room table. She still doesn’t use his chair when she sits, alone, in the living room at night, silently completing her crosswords. By keeping the routines, she keeps Stanley with her.
Her daughter doesn’t approve. “Sell the house,” she says, suggesting a transition to a bright, new retirement home. “It’s time to move on,” she says, as if she is now the parent. But why would she do that? That would mean leaving their memories, leaving Stanley behind.
He’s a hard man to quit.
Instead, she waits, as if any moment now, he’ll enter the room, go to her on the couch, lean his head down to kiss her forehead, and say, “I’m home, Sarah. I’m home.”
Poignant. I’m with the daughter, but I can understand Sarah. She isn’t ready and becoming ready may be too much effort for her. Well described.
Thanks Cathy!
A sensitive beginning of a deeply human story that left me disappointed that the story didn’t continue.
Like Fred, I was left wanting more. I wonder whether the next morning is the same as today??
I agree with previous commentary, I only wish there was more! I’m not familiar with “flash” pieces but if the goal is to get your reader sucked in and feeling how they would if they were in the character’s place, then mission accomplished! Beautiful, thank you for sharing.
A beautiful, wistful love story.
This is such a nice snapshot in time. It reminds me of The Year of Magical Thinking and nicely presents the longing for an alternate reality.
Touching story.
You can’t imagine how much I identify with Sarah, you could have been writing about me. In my case no mutt, 62 years together, continue to fluff his pillow on his side of the bed, unwilling to move for the same reasons. Thank you for conveying my situation and feelings so accurately.
Midge
Thanks to all of you for your comments. It is so helpful to hear how others react to a story I’ve written, and I appreciate you taking the time to write your thoughts.
This story is so relatable if you are at that ‘place’ in life. Wonderfully written.
This scared me so much, but in a good way. Yikes, this is a scenario that could happen in my life. It makes me want to hold onto every minute. I am so fortunate. Thank you for sharing it with us.
Wonderfully written!
What a sibilant gem of a story! On third reading, I found myself reversing the “I’m home” statement as coming from Sarah, joining Stanley after death.
I’ve re-read this story several times now. It still brings tears to my eyes. It is a true skill to capture so much emotion in few words. Thank you for sharing.
It’s fascinating how so much can be said in so few words. Well done!