R
Robert Harrison
Guest
THE VASE
It all seemed so real, it did every time I dreamt of her.
Her perfume lingered in the bedroom, and my cheek still
tickled as if her hair was still brushing it. I tried to keep the
the dream alive as long as I could, but only the memory of it
still lived on, and I could not give the dream any future.
I lay looking at the ceiling trying to image her lying at my
side, to feel her warmth and the softness of her body, but
the side of the bed on which she slept was cold. The only
evidence that she had once was part of this room were the
patterns on the ceiling cast by the tall crystal vase which
stood on a small table in front of the window.
Not since Clare had died had the vase held any of the long
stemmed Tulips and Lupin, which she picked from her own
flower garden. It did not seem right somehow, not even for
me to touch it. It was her’s, it always had been ever since
great Aunt Elizabeth had given it to her as a small child, and
Clare had treasured it all of those years.
How long had it been, forty-two years since we were married
and I still dream of her. Oh, but she was beautiful. And what
had I given her all of those years, six kids, all of them turned
out to be dam useless. I blame the city, and having to live in a
rough old farm house on some God forsaken Yorkshire moor.
Waste deep in freezing snow every winter, to rescue some
stupid lamb that hadn’t the sense to stay near it’s mother.
Five o’clock in the morning hand milking, hell, I could not even
afford a milking machine. She often caught me looking at her
as she nestled her cheek against the warm belly of the milker.
She would give me that smile, that knowing smile which seemed
to reassure me that all was as she wished it to be, no words
were spoken during those brief caught out moments.
It has been two years since she died, a blood clot so I was told.
Nothing they could do about it. Dam them to hell. She should
not have died, not my Clare. Two of the kids did not even bother
to come to her funeral. Others only came to see what was for
the picking when I eventually sold the farm.
She had given me that smile moments before I was awoken by
the clap of thunder heralding the storm. Blue white light flashed,
passing through her beloved vase leaving a brief memory of her
upon the ceiling.
It all seemed so real, it did every time I dreamt of her.
Her perfume lingered in the bedroom, and my cheek still
tickled as if her hair was still brushing it. I tried to keep the
the dream alive as long as I could, but only the memory of it
still lived on, and I could not give the dream any future.
I lay looking at the ceiling trying to image her lying at my
side, to feel her warmth and the softness of her body, but
the side of the bed on which she slept was cold. The only
evidence that she had once was part of this room were the
patterns on the ceiling cast by the tall crystal vase which
stood on a small table in front of the window.
Not since Clare had died had the vase held any of the long
stemmed Tulips and Lupin, which she picked from her own
flower garden. It did not seem right somehow, not even for
me to touch it. It was her’s, it always had been ever since
great Aunt Elizabeth had given it to her as a small child, and
Clare had treasured it all of those years.
How long had it been, forty-two years since we were married
and I still dream of her. Oh, but she was beautiful. And what
had I given her all of those years, six kids, all of them turned
out to be dam useless. I blame the city, and having to live in a
rough old farm house on some God forsaken Yorkshire moor.
Waste deep in freezing snow every winter, to rescue some
stupid lamb that hadn’t the sense to stay near it’s mother.
Five o’clock in the morning hand milking, hell, I could not even
afford a milking machine. She often caught me looking at her
as she nestled her cheek against the warm belly of the milker.
She would give me that smile, that knowing smile which seemed
to reassure me that all was as she wished it to be, no words
were spoken during those brief caught out moments.
It has been two years since she died, a blood clot so I was told.
Nothing they could do about it. Dam them to hell. She should
not have died, not my Clare. Two of the kids did not even bother
to come to her funeral. Others only came to see what was for
the picking when I eventually sold the farm.
She had given me that smile moments before I was awoken by
the clap of thunder heralding the storm. Blue white light flashed,
passing through her beloved vase leaving a brief memory of her
upon the ceiling.
