Micro Monday | Romance | Flash Fiction
Freesias for Valentine’s Day
She appreciates her visits from Herbie, her devoted husband
The old man rose slowly to his feet, brushing grass from the knife-edged crease down the front of his trousers. Herbie was always so dapper, he’d never leave the house with a smut on his shirt or a hole in his socks. I watched fondly, I bought that tie, a Christmas present. I couldn’t tell if he liked it, but he wears it when he visits, just to please me.
There was less spring in his step today, in fact Herbie was hunched when he walked, putting his hand out on a bench or wall as he passed. He’s too proud to use a stick, a small vanity which I understand. I used to hate wearing my glasses, until he told me:
“Don’t be silly, squinting at things could make you look odd! You are just as beautiful with glasses.”
It was nice sitting peacefully with Herbie. We know each other so well, we’ve no need for words. He’s been my missing puzzle piece since we met at a tea dance. He turned my head as they used to say. Herbie was my rock and I was his turtle dove. Sweet how he’d call me that when we were alone. I won’t say we never had a cross word, I’ve got a fiery temper and Herbie won’t be bossed, but we didn’t sleep on an argument. That’s a rule the youngsters should try.
It’s Valentines’ Day and he’s here with a bunch of freesias — my favourites. He tried to grow them in our garden, but they wouldn’t take. Perhaps our soil wasn’t right or they needed a greenhouse. He loves to plant things, he’s pretty good at vegetables, and I loved cooking what he grew. I’m sure it kept us healthy, eating peas and beans and lettuce that hadn’t been sprayed with chemicals. We had an apple and a plum tree too, so I made jellies and jams.
The year I won a prize at the village fete, Herbie was so proud.
I’ll bet he’s kept our garden going since I left, although perhaps now he needs help, it might be getting too much for him. I hope he’s learned to cook, he couldn’t do more than boil an egg and burn toast when I lived with him. Herbie’s a determined man, I’m sure he found ways of coping.
He’s been visiting my grave for seventeen years, on both of our birthdays, our anniversary, at Christmas and Easter and on the date when I lost our baby — he’s the only one who knows that now. April the seventh, when the grass verges are swaying with daffodils and narcissus, bright and optimistic for the summer to come.
As I watched Herbie walk away, his gait unsteady, his hat pulled over his thinning hair, I wondered. How many more visits would he make, before he rests here, in the spot reserved for him, next to me, his beloved wife Dorothea.
I hope this didn’t make you too sad. More from me here …
If you like what you find on Medium, why not sign up for membership using my referral link — it helps me earn money and will give you access to everything else on Medium for only $5 per month, or follow me to get notification every time I publish something new
