Her hands trembled, shook uncontrollably as she picked up her tooth brush to clean what was remaining of her dentition. She slowly looked up to see her reflection in the mirror. A tired, weary wrinkled face looked back at her. Her hair had greyed, thinning out, like wilting leaves on an autumn tree. She had to squint her eyes, to see more clearly, fighting with the cataract, that was slowly blinding her. Her figure was stooped, hunched, her spine unwilling, and unable to bear her weight. The weight of a lifetime of sorrows. 85 years. She hadtrouble moving about, shuffling a few steps, stopping every now and then for breath. Her lungs were failing her. Her breath came out in gasps, every breath was a struggle, even the abundantly available oxygen was playing hard to get with her. She wore a light sky blue
wispy cotton dress, flimsy white lace adorning the edges. Adamant stains marred the front half of her dress, contrasting her once affluent days and present poverty. As she stood by the single broken window, she saw a long unwinding path, reminiscent of her life. Moth eaten curtains shielded her from the sharp rays of the afternoon sun. A gentle breeze was her only visitor. She lived alone. All that was left of her life was what she saw in that mirror. An old woman, who
had been someone’s mother, someone’s daughter, someone’s wife.
She looked at the photo by the side of her bed. She saw a young girl, about 25 years happy as only a new bride could be smiling at the camera, standing in front of a quaint little church, a glimpse of pure white against a background of autumn leaves, and dark angry clouds in the sky. How well she remembered that day. She could smell the sanctity of the church, the yellow roses, each one perfect, a miracle in itself,that lined the aisle that day as she walked towards her future, and her dreams. She could hear the whispers, the blessings, the roar of the thunder, as she stood by his side to take her vows. Tears rolled down her cheeks, as she relived her moment of pride, joy,
trepidation, enthusiasm all blending into the one single second when She said ‘I do’.
But it was all gone now. It was the war. Her husband, the one she promised to live in joy and sorrow was dead. Killed. He had died, a
soldier’s death, they had told her. Death was absolute, how could it be graded? Soldier or not, he had died, leaving her alone to pick up
the pieces of the life that was left behind, in a country that barely survived after the war. The war. It wasn’t fair.
Her thoughts drifted on to the day she never thought would cause her so much pain. She had waited expectantly for it. Nine months pregnant, blissful and happy, little did she know that the child in her was no more. Her child, her very own flesh, and blood, his and hers, never lived to even see his mother. He died as he was being born, a fresh still born. She had held the little fellow, wrinkled, tiny and bony in her arms, as she sobbed, willing him to breathe, willing him to nurse her breasts. But he didn’t. His life consisted of less than a second. He had lived for less than a second. She had still been someone’s mother.
The whistle on the kettle blew, a jarring noise, bringing her back to reality. An old lady in a broken down cottage, by the creek. Miles
away from civilization. She preferred it that way. Human contact pained her. It reminded her that she was someone’s wife. Someone’s mother. Someone’s daughter. The wounds had never healed, they never would. Time only helped in acceptance. Time only helped her wait for the day that she too, would be gone. But the wounds were still fresh and raw. Gaping. Bleeding. Like the ones that killed her husband. Blood oozing from his flesh, his eyes screaming silently in unbearable pain. Bone sticking out, him lying in a pool of his own blood. No one
had helped. No one could. He was clean, saintly, and at peace when they brought him home. But she had heard. That was war, to her.
She poured herself a cup of tea and sat herself down on her old creaky rocking chair. It had blue cushions, warm and comfortable, that smelt like an old lady, musty and sweaty. A little round table sat beside her, an oil lantern reeking the smell of kerosene, which she would turn on as the sun set. A clock ticked away the minutes, as she waited, patiently. She did not know for what she was waiting.
Silence and calm descended. It was days before they found her. An old lady, wilted, shriveled, and dry, sitting in her old creaky rocking chair, by the side of the broken window, moth eaten curtains shielding her from the sun, a single perfect yellow rose in her hand, a blissful smile on her face.
