|Jan/Feb 2006 Fiction Special Feature|
The summers came and went, twelve in all, including this year. Counted off on my wall calendars, as I looked out of the kitchen window upon our dying cottage garden and watched helplessly as the cowslips choked the grass. Each turn of the season throwing up an abundance of memories, and as the years progressed they become more and more fanciful, as if we felt the need to embellish the life departed in order to remember the reality; eventually moving with delicacy into the prosaic as the recollection faded further still. I miss her dearly, yet am ashamed to admit, that after more than fifty years together, it takes a photograph to remind me of her face.