some fiction

MY YELLOW DRESS
by dad44
A violent storm tore through the countryside while Gwen and Harold celebrated their sixtieth wedding anniversary at Leabrook Retirement Home. All of their families promised to come and visit them, but had to cancel because fierce wind gusts brought trees down onto the highway.
“Harold. Have a look at this one - It’s even better!” Gwen reached over, and passed another faded black and white photograph to her husband.
He received it with a shaky old hand, and then studied the image contentedly.
“Remember when we met?” Her words filled the room.
“Oh, yes. Of course I remember.” Harold said as he shifted a little in the old armchair. He brought his other hand out from under the thick blanket and rested his chin in it, while he thought back to their first date.
“You had that stunning yellow dress,” he said with a smile.
“And remember when you got it caught on the rose bushes outside your mum’s house!”
“Ha ha ha - and they all thought we did something we weren’t supposed to, because the buttons came off and showed below my neck line. Yes I remember.” Her smile faded. “Anyway. I had a petticoat on underneath.”
“Just as well - or you might’ve gotten me into real trouble with your father. That’s for sure!” Harold remembered the occasion as clear as yesterday, although it was over sixty years ago.
Gwen caught a twinkle in his eye. It always reassured her to know that he remembered their first date.
Matron knocked, and then entered their little double room. She flashed a pill container at Harold.
“Time for your heart tablets, Mr. Jones. Do you need a drink?”
“Oh.” Harold said as he looked up and saw her white uniform. It brought him back to the present.
“Do you need a drink with your tablets, Mr. Jones?” Matron was busy as usual. She had many resident patients to attend to, and wanted them all to have their medication on time.
He gazed at his water container and found a couple of mouthfuls.
“Yes. I’ve still got plenty in my Jug, Matron.” He hated to bother her.
“Here’s your pills then!” She put them down on the table and rushed off, slamming the door behind her.
“I sure wish we were home.” Harold had a tear in his eye.
“At least I had my garden there. And those roses - weren’t they beautiful?”
“Yes, Harold.” Gwen said while searching the floor. She could not think of anything else to say. He was just far too sick to tend to any garden, and this would simply have to be their last home. The thought brought a tear to her eye, but she quickly wipe it away.
After a lovely baked dinner, Gwen and Harold returned to their little double room, number fifty seven. It was situated along a draughty corridor with a highly polished linoleum floor.
So cold, though Gwen, but some sort of home.
She was about to open the door when Harold turned to her.
“I want to go for a little walk, My darling. I don’t feel so good.”
“I’ll come with you, Harold!”
He brushed a drop of sweat from his forehead.
“Don’t worry - I’m not going yet.” He saw the worried look on her face, so he put his arm around her.
“I love you forever - if that’ll make you feel any better.”
“Yes, you old scoundrel!” She quickly kissed him on the cheek. “I’ll turn the heater on so our room will be nice and comfy when you get back.”
She studied his eyes and grew desperate when he did not reply.
“Oh, Harold. Please don’t go outside!”
“I won’t, dearest.”
Gwen watched him hobble down the long corridor. When he turned the corner she opened the door and went inside.
In their wardrobe hung her most precious possession, a faded yellow dress she had kept for sixty two years. She brought it out and studied it carefully, then decided to wear it when the time came.
A half an hour later, Matron opened the door.
“Your husband has been taken to the sick room.” She paused for a second. “One of our night staff found him on the floor in the main lounge.”
Gwen cried when she reached the sick room and saw Harold on the bed. A doctor had been called, but Harold would have to wait at least an hour because of the stormy weather.
“Oh, darling. I should have gone with you.”
Harold turned his eyes and gazed back. He so desperately wanted to move, but was unable to.
“Remember. I love you forever, Gwen!” His last words rang in her mind.
Moments later she saw him in his peaceful slumber. It brought on such desperate feelings of loneliness that she walked quietly to her room and cried herself to sleep.

The following morning bright sunshine splashed full colour onto everything.
Leanne squinted from the glare of chrome work as she parked their station wagon in the Nursing Home car park.
“Isn’t it a lovely day.”
“Yeth, mum,” replied David. His front teeth were missing.
“Look David - over there!” She pointed to a flock of Galahs that were busy demolishing an almond tree.
Their screeches and squawks rang out, and when David heard them he copied.
“Corr, Corr!” he squealed, and flapped his arms in the air like a bird.
“Are you going to show Nana and Poppa what a Galah looks like!”
“Yeth, mum!”
“You run ahead, then - and I’ll bring in their pressies!”
Leanne held a large box of chocolates, a bunch of flowers, and some personally gift wrapped presents from her family. She was about to enter the front door when she saw Matron heading her way.
“I’m afraid it’s your grandfather,” she paused. “He died last night.”
Leanne stared at the Matron.
“He what?” She nearly dropped the presents.
“I’m sorry, Leanne,” replied Matron, but when Leanne said nothing, she added,
“Eighty three is a fine age.” What else could she say.
Leanne suddenly grasped what happened, so she pushed past the Matron and ran down the long corridor to number fifty seven. She opened the door and saw her son sitting next to the bed where her grandmother lay.
“Ssh, mummy,” he said. “She’th athleep.”
“Just look at her!” Leanne saw the tear stained pillow and old faded yellow dress she had on.
“Doesn’t she have anything better to wear!”
“It’th the thame one ath in the picture, mummy!” David said as he pointed to one of several black and white photographs that stood upright on the old dressing table.
“Well, so it is,” she said, as she patted her grandmother’s hand.
It was cold as ice.