Their last journey together.
Dear readers, although this story is offered as a tale of love and devotion, the subject matter is highly controversial. Some might find this story harrowing while others may not approve of the premise. I offer it as a different yet, hopefully, still romantic slant on the usual St Valentine's Day stories.
Story:
Emma awoke and rose early on the 14th of February for she knew she had a busy day ahead of her. She smiled, inwardly, as she glanced at her sleeping husband who still lay on their matrimonial bed. A bed they had shared over many decades; not always the same bed, of course, but one that they could proclaim as being a place where lovers lie together in harmony.
"Oh Harold, I do love you so, and I have your Valentine's card right here," Emma whispered the words searchingly; however, she expected no reply.
She moved to her chest-of-drawers and from under the pile of panties and vests produced a small white paper bag. She cringed at the rustling noise as she removed a card whose frontage was decorated with soft cuddly bears, hearts, and pale coloured ribbons. The inside section bore a message in shaky handwriting which read, "To the only man I've ever loved, and the only one I ever will."
Harold has always been an old grouch when it comes to cards that mark events which he felt were exploitations and he had little to do with such occasions. He still however always accepted the cards presented to him at Easter, Christmas and on St Valentine's Day. In absence of a return card he would give Emma flowers instead; on St Valentine's Day the flowers were, more often than not, orchids.
As if on cue, a knock on the door startled Emma from her daydreaming.
She returned to the bedroom, shortly, after answering the call, carrying a solitary orchid in a small vase. She had asked a neighbour to do the chore she knew Harold could no longer perform that to purchase the flower. She placed the vase on Harold's nightstand and bent to kiss his cheek. "Thank you, Harold, its beautiful!"
The sleeping man's eyes flickered open on sensing his wife's tender lips on his cheek. His eyeballs flashed to the side of their sockets, first left then right. Today he had awoken knowing who and where he was but that seldom was the case, nowadays.
Illness had ravaged his mind leaving him bemused and confused for most of the time, and yet there were still moments in time where his memory would return to taunt him and his wife; periods of precious time that grew less frequent with each passing day! Most days, now, he would not recognise his loving wife. Sometimes his objections to her intrusions manifested themselves with accompanying violence. "Who are you woman, go away, leave me alone." He would flay his fists while ranting.
On 'good days' Emma and Harold reminisced of earlier times; of their family and outings to the seaside or trips inland to walk through forests and over grassy fields. They loved their English county countryside and, ever the more so, they loved the romantic names that the author, Thomas Hardy, had given to the same area.
Harold now spent most of his days in bed and, at the times when he was aware of his surroundings, would love Emma to read from Hardy's novels. His favourite story and yet the saddest, for him, was 'The Mayor of Casterbridge.'
That story starts out by relaying the tale of a twenty-one year old hay-trusser who, while besotted with rum-laced furmity, has a row with his wife and then auctions her and their child for five guineas. He is then too ashamed to immediately track down the buyer, a sailor.
Although the hay-trusser succeeds in business and later becomes the Mayor he lives with his private shame of what he has done. He does later, partially, repay his debt to his wife and the sailor who bought his wife and child but the Mayor essentially dies a broken man.
