A Golden Age

The memories were so strong,  so vivid that she would find herself talking to him, laughing and reaching out for his hand, taking in his smile and the desperate way he looked at her, the rising flush in his cheeks, always so adorable, mirroring her own. His touch was tangible,  strong and firm, a reassuring weight draped across her shoulders or more often than not, holding her tightly to his hips, her chin resting in the warm curves of his neck. She would close her eyes and breathe in his scent, her features relaxed, a beauty imbued with contentment, until suddenly this would melt into confusion, giving way to a panic that flitted pitifully across her face, her pupils pulsating with a fear and her hands grasping at the air. Desperation took a hold of her and her neck strained against the withered and weakened muscles, as she turned this way and that, hungering after his disappearing shadow. The cruel truth slowly became apparent and with a hardened look, the sadness fixed into the firm set of her mouth, she continued to shuffle along the footpath, the loneliness once again silently creeping in beside her.

She had thought these instances would lessen over time,  but it seemed that fate had other plans, and as her bones began to give way to the damage of age, she began to accept these occurrences as the norm. In fact, her lapses brought her a happiness, a momentary joy in the slump of her shoulders, an energy stirred up from the vigour of the memories surfacing from her youth. But for those around her,  they whispered the cold, cutting words of 'dementia' and 'senility'. She ignored them, for the respite she found in the precious moments she savoured gave her a strength, such that she almost felt she no longer needed her stick, her helping hand, the groove of which would otherwise stay close beneath her fingers, tracing his name hidden within the wood. Despite her old age and the years that had passed, he was the one she could never forget.