Tomorrow will be different

The waving leaves of the many scattered oak trees greeted him for the 2773rd time since his retirement. Clouds dimmed the light of the late summer’s sun. When he had rightfully earned his freedom after the daily grind that had been his job for more than 40 years, there hadn’t been a single day where he didn’t visit the small park two blocks away from his once cosy family home. He would get up in the morning around 8 to slip on the heavy blue bathrobe that had two small holes in its left sleeve where burning cigarette butts had accidentally met with the fabric, and he would bury his feet in his favourite beige slippers where his toes stuck out – this was not intentionally designed that way, but time could sculpt the most surprisingly comfortable designs. Downstairs, he would kiss his grey-haired wife on the cheek while she cooked them breakfast: bacon and eggs on toast that had been in the toaster for just half a minute too long. He would complain about the burnt toast, yet eagerly dig into it once she would plate it up with the bacon and eggs. It was exactly how it was supposed to be.
“Can we leave already?” Was the question he’d ask her once breakfast was finished, and she’d smile that beautiful heart-warming smile of hers that touched him just as it had many, many years ago when she was no more than a young filly, free and wild. She had a beautiful smile that touched her warm golden eyes, making that soft, smouldering fire in them burn like the day they had met.
“Just a few minutes, silly, you should get dressed first.” He would only realize that he was still wearing his old bathrobe once it was mentioned to him, and every time he did it still surprised him. His wife always teased him with his forgetfulness – luckily, her memory was a lot more reliable than his and she had the patience of a saint to add to it.
“Right, right,” he had grumbled, sighing heavily as if partially insulted by her notion. In truth, his aching joints were simply not up to the task of climbing those steep, creaking stairs every day, but he hid this from his family. Naturally, it didn’t go unnoticed, no matter how hard he had tried to seem unaffected by time. She would worry over his health, he would tell her she was being a silly old coot. It was impossible not to regret those endless discussions now, when he had been too stubborn to see that the stairs weren’t just bothering him...
He had gotten up one morning to slip on his bathrobe and slowly nibble at the slightly burnt toast with bacon and eggs.
“Get dressed first…” He got up, grumbling once again, his joints grinding together like sandpaper and his tired muscles aching from the lack of sleep. The pain was unbearable. The aching never stopped and it didn’t fade, nor would he ever get used to it.
After taking that agonizing way back down the stairs, he returned to the living room to sit in his favourite brown leather armchair. It vaguely smelled of whisky and the thick cigars he had smoked for years. Next to it was a low, black side table covered in a stack of magazines – mainly the home and garden magazines of his wife but some of them were his, not that he had ever taken the time to read those. Set on top of them was a faded framed picture of his wife and him, posing with their three young children, all full of life and smiling towards the flash of the old camera. With trembling hands, he took the picture from the small mountain of magazines, trying to focus his bleary-eyed gaze on the happiness that one frame had captured. The image faded.
“Remember when we met?” It was impossible to ever forget that particular day, when the sky had been cloudless and the grass was covered in many colourful picnic blankets.

“Are you going to have a picnic too?” Upon hearing the unfamiliar sound of a young woman’s voice, he turned his head only to face the blinding mid-afternoon sun. Using his one free hand he had to create a narrow patch of shade over his face to take in the darkened silhouette before him. Light was playing with the outlines of her soft curvy figure, bathing her in its golden rays while she watched him. He was barely able to see her face, but didn’t need to recognize any details to make out the soft, radiant expression.
“I wasn’t planning on it…” He replied, an inevitable smile slowly creeping onto his features. In his other hand, he still held the flat, round pebble he had picked up earlier. “Watch this.” He swung his arm, letting the flexibility of his wrist do its job, and the pebble raced across the water. It made a few agile haphazard jumps on the water’s glowing yellow and blue surface, before making a small splash in front of a few ducklings.
“Careful,” she spoke, “you don’t want to hit them.” As she strolled forward to come and sit beside him, there was no judgement or hostility in those golden eyes, which lit up like a fire as the light played with them. Instead, she smiled at him and handed him a piece of the leftover bread he hadn’t noticed she was holding. “Watch this.”
She threw in a few breadcrumbs, tearing them off the bread into tiny fragments, before throwing them into the pond. Instead of hurrying away as they had done earlier, the ducklings rushed forward with their mother, quacking as they dipped their beaks into the water, splashing as they did.
She smiled at him. He smiled back.

A single drop of salty water hits the glass of the frame, and he swallowed. What he’d do to see that smile again, or the radiant fire in those golden eyes… He would beg for her to tell him once more that they should move to a bungalow with no stairs, or for her to point out his forgetfulness - just once more. If only he had listened.
“I’m so sorry, my dear.” He whispered through his now ragged yet silent sobs, unable to hide the pain any longer. Whom did he have to hide it from? Without his beloved wife, he had no reason to fight the tears or feign his strength to be the support she had needed. “I remember our promise. I won’t forget.” More tears escaped until they rolled down his cheek steadily, a silent cascade of grief and sorrow. He missed her.
The waving leaves of the many scattered oak trees greeted him for the 2786th time since his retirement. Rain poured from the dark skies in abundance, leaving puddles of muddy water in the yellowing grass. He didn’t mind, his tears would blend with the sky’s. He sat down on the narrow park bench he used to share, bread in hand, but his eyes closed as the ducklings made their way over to him.

“I wish we could stay here forever.” Her fingers were entangled with the tall grass, her head tilted backwards with her eyes closed so she could soak up the sun. “Promise me we’ll visit as often as possible?”
“I promise.” Her head turned to face him and she smiled that same smile he had fallen in love with so easily.
“Even when we’re old and grey?” There was a sincere, hopeful look on her soft face, and he laughed freely, reaching out so he could gently take her hand and entwine his fingers with hers.
“’Til death do us part and beyond.”

His hands trembled, the bread fell to the ground with a thud, but he couldn’t pick it up. He was frozen on that park bench, the timeless place that was their own sanctuary. Whether the ability to breathe had vanished because of his age or because of the desperate longing for his lost love, he didn’t know. He didn’t fight the feeling. There was no fear. This was where he belonged, but not alone. My love, take me with you.

The waving leaves of the many scattered oak trees greeted him for the 2787th time since his retirement.