Writing on Wednesdays

writing and coffee

Alright, guys, here’s the thing: I’m a reader and a writer. I can’t explain my love for writing at this moment; it’s just inherently a part of me. I don’t expect everyone (or anyone, for that matter) to like my writing, but I continue to do so anyway. OKAY. SO. I’ve decided that, as a “kick in the butt” to make time for my writing a few times a week, I would start publish a “Writing on Wednesday.” I’m excited about it. Hopefully you’ll find some enjoyment out of it. I am looking for minor critiques (nothing crazy, as I’m not planning on writing a novel…yet), but I do welcome constructive feedback. This particular scene is based off of what I thought would be happening in the picture beneath it. Here goes!

**This is first draft**

I lean my head into the space between his shoulder and mine and sigh. He turns his head and places a kiss on my forehead the same way he’s done it for almost fifty years. I smile as I think about the implications of that number. In love for half of a century. If that isn’t an epic love, I don’t know what is. We’ve been sitting like this for hours now, his arm wrapped around my shoulder, our hands intertwined. I look down at our hands and think about how each deep wrinkle signifies some trial or success we’ve conquered together. Our hands. Both the same, yet so different. His, callused and worn from years of performing the sacred duties of a husband and later a father. His hands have killed every insect that dared cross the threshold into our daughter’s room. They’ve put out stove fires many times over after I had burnt yet another meal. They’ve fixed leaky roof shingles. They’ve brushed my hair out of my eyes and squeezed my trembling fingers as he said “I do.” My hands once bore the marks of motherhood, but those have been washed away by months of cancer treatments. Only translucent skin and brittle bones remain; I am in my final days.

As if sensing my thoughts, he squeezes my arm lightly and tells me that I look beautiful to him. I sigh. God really has been good to us. I don’t deserve the man next to me. I don’t deserve to spend my last days sitting with him, contentedly reflecting on the beautiful life we’ve had. The afternoon light is fading and a light mist starts to fall, casting a soft glow over everything. The maple tree to our right that wedged deep cuts into our daughter’s arms as she fell from its branches one childhood summer doesn’t seem so vicious anymore. I suppose every bad memory loses its sting when you realize that its impact has long since vanished. As the light wanes, my life wanes too. I soak in the breathtaking view of my house for half of a century; I turn my hand over and relish the tickling sensation of the mist as each minuscule drop touches my palm; I allow the maple and pine scented air to waft through my nostrils; I listen to the music the air makes as it swirls around us and moves through the trees; I begin to fall asleep to the strong rhythmic heartbeats thrumming from the chest next to mine. “I love you,” I murmur. “You will always be alive in me, darling,” he answers. “Don’t prolong your pain for my sake. I love you too much.” I close my eyes.

Old Bench


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