When I Hear Him Whistle...

When I hear him whistling that tune my heart skips a beat and I feel sixteen again. I think about the seemingly endless hours that went into setting my hair and saving up for stockings in readiness for the dances we used to go to. I blush as I recall the grin I used to sport when he introduced me to his friends as the girl he was stepping out with.

I was a shy little slip of a thing back then, happy for him to take the lead and always amazed that out of all the dusky beauties vying for his attention he picked plain, bookish me.

My parents were so proud the day we married. It was a sunny Saturday in June. Jim, resplendent in his uniform and me radiant in a dress made by my mother out of begged and borrowed scraps from family and neighbours. Three tiers we had on our cake. The bottom was fruit, cut into the tiniest of slithers but the top two were cardboard borrowed from the bakers. We knew how to make the best of what we had in wartime.

Peace arrived along with our son David and then, soon after twin daughters, Jane and Elizabeth. They were tough days with barely enough pennies to go round but we scrimped and we saved and we managed. The girls wore pristine white socks and ribbons for chapel on Sundays and David’s hair was slicked down just like his fathers.

Hard but happy times…

I fill the kettle at the sink and look down at my hands. My wedding ring spins easily on my finger where once it was almost too tight. The skin feels paper thin, the veins thick and pronounced. I used to have lovely hands…

Where did all those decades disappear to I wonder. How is it possible that our lives have slipped by so unnoticed and that all we are left with are life’s dregs, the pair of us preparing to take our final slurp from life’s great cup?

I hear him pull the plug out of the sink in the bathroom and slowly make his way back down the hall. I wonder if he’ll need help getting dressed…I wonder if today he’ll remember my name…

H-J