The road
©copyright 2009 Frans Bezuidenhout
Deserted, the road seemed longer than usual. My thoughts lingered in places where we often met — especially those of her last few months. The cellular’s ring interrupted my thinking. “She does not seem well,” I heard the voice say.
We would often sit at the dinner table where I would trace the veins of her hand while we spoke softly about her pending death with our emotions often getting in the way. Sometimes she would excuse herself to take a rest, coming back to continue where we left off. She had much to work through — her naps were a means to digest what we had discussed.
She did not cry when she left her home one month later.
Her breathing was shallow as I looked down at her face, feeling the urge to be at my father’s bedside. I silently withdrew from those gathered around her.
The shades were slightly drawn — the silence audible. Sitting on the chair slowly unscrewing the pot of cream, my fingers dipped into its smooth comforting texture. He made no effort to speak or move when I massaged his feet as she once did. "Dad, I think she is going." I did not expect a reply as I felt he already knew.
I entered her room where she was lying comfortably against pillows, now realising why they had indicated ‘seven pillows’. She did not ask but knew where I had been when I sat down on the bed. As our eyes met, she asked: “How long do they say I have?”
My mind raced as I put my arms around her frail body whispering, “They say there are not many days anymore.” She was not afraid to ask the question — she always did this in indirect manner.
It hurt inside me as I stood up moving to the end of the bed. She lifted her head asking, “Who is that beside you?”
Caught off guard, I replied, “I do not know, but believed that someone had come to be with her.
She died in the early hours of the morning — none of her children were there. I had been awakened — not by the ring of the phone, but by her presence.
The road seemed too short as I struggled with my hurt.
There was a sound of serenity when I entered her room. She looked lovely in her pink gown etched against the neat white sheet. Running my hand down her arm, I touched her cheek, then, I slipped my hand into hers. She was no longer with us.
I drove with tired and heavy heart to his call. He had not spoken for a year. They told me he had called her name.
"Pearlie."
I put my arms around him speaking softly, “You can also go now, she’s waiting for you.”
A thought entered my mind as I drove the lonely road conscious of the fifty-four years I had shared with them — it would be thirteen days when I will drive along this road to hold his hand and feel his life soar towards her.
~~ The End
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Author notes
My parents were married for 52 years, and died 13 days of each other - both where cared for in different frail care homes, due to lack of accommodation.
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Adding your comment:
This short has most of the same issues as "Camp B:" unnecessary words, unnecessary use of 'that,' improper use of commas and not used when should have been, etc. 
