My Dearest Love...

My Dearest Love,

 

 

It has been longer than I intended since I last wrote. I can’t believe it’s now four years since I last saw you, held you, and felt your strength.

 

 

Do you remember that time when we went to the park, and you had that horrible stuff? What was it? Ahh yes, Gypsy Tart. That’s what it was called. How could you? Sugar and tinned sweetened milk cooked until it was even more disgusting. Oh, how I wish you were here for me to be revolted at it again.

 

 

Don’t do this to me, I’m crying again. The times I have missed you and cried myself to sleep in our cold and lonely bed are too many for me to count. I love you and I will always love you, you know that. You’re part of me, the part that completes me. I like to think I did the same for you, but you weren’t one for words and while I think I did, you never told me. You’d just hug me and nuzzle my neck making me squeal and tingle all over. I wish we could hold one another again soon.

 

 

I’m writing this letter at your old desk in the study. I love the smell of the room, redolent of old tobacco, leather and polish; it reminds me of you. I can remember so clearly sitting opposite you while you wrote with your vintage pens, scribbling away, quietly just being there, being yourself. I was so happy to be in the same room as you. I’m using that gorgeous old fountain pen of yours. You know, the old one that splatters ink everywhere if you’re not careful. The one where you squirted ink all over the bedroom wall when you forgot it had ink in it. It’s now over 100 years old. To use your things still makes me feel closer to you, but why do I have your pen and not you? I need you  here. With me, not where you are now.

 

 

I ought to tell you the news of the cats. Squeaky is getting old. He’s eighteen now, and feels the cold. It makes him extra attentive, hogging every second of available lap. I have him on my lap every evening now, even though I wriggle too much. He would much prefer you, because you were warmer and didn’t move so much. I feel the cold too, without you to snuggle up to.

 

 

I get out a fair bit now, not like in the beginning when I was alone and so lonely. The Church always needs volunteers, cooking and washing for the homeless, visiting the elderly and going to the food banks for those who can’t get there themselves. It’s so lucky that you keep providing for me so I can help those who’re worse off than I am. I just wish I could thank you the way I want to.

 

 

My dearest, I’ll have to stop, now. If I don’t, my nose is going drip and smudge this letter, and it feels as if I won’t stop crying for weeks. I know I won’t post this letter just like I didn’t any of the others. Who would I send it to? However, I promise to be round to the cemetery & put flowers on your grave tomorrow. Talking to you like this is as close as I can ever get now, and it’s not enough. I hate to think of you in the cold, cold earth. How can I have gone down with that horrible disease three or four times and been unharmed? While you.. Only once and that was enough. You, so strong, felled by such a little thing. It does make me weep, still, four years on. Covid? What a curse.

 

 

All my love,

 

 

                Misty

                Forever, your loving wife.

Inspiration: The Contest Title. I thought it appropriate to show an image of someone writing to illustrate a writing contest. Other inspiration, I'm a fountain pen nut, I adore my wife, and 4 years ago I rendered an image and little story based on a woman who was in the scorching first moments of her grief after her lover had died from Covid. I thought the 4th anniversary was an appropriate time to update that emotion and see how she had moved on. As the little story evolved, the answer was not so much.

Word Count: 632 in the story content.

Word Count: 1012
Hours Spent: 5
Software Used: DAZ Studio 4 With IRAY