Hope

It was a cold Wednesday morning in February.

Harry had been laying on his side of the bed, mindlessly staring at the ceiling for a while. Even though he was wearing his blue flannel pajamas and had the duvet pulled up to his shoulders, the chilly morning air in his bedroom still managed to make him shiver.

And the arthritic ache in his bones was a dull reminder that he was a year older. He was now fifty-three-years-old and even though he didn't look it, his joints felt it.

Growing older didn't bother him, but he didn't want to get up. The day's agenda, that had nothing to do with his birthday, loomed over him like a dark cloud which he was certain would bring rain and quite possibly a flood.

Letting out a yawn, Harry turned his head on his pillow towards the empty space next to him and he sighed.

For twenty-eight years, he had gone to bed and woken up to the same lovely woman next to him, but that ended two months and thirteen days ago.

In that moment, Harry saw her kind brown eyes looking back at him, he inhaled her rose petal-scented body wash and he felt her comforting touch, even though no one was there.

The morning sun shone through the ivory-colored drapes, causing Harry to blink a few times and he rubbed his eyes. He took in a deep breath and yawned, stretching his sleepy and somewhat achy muscles.

Harry let out the breath, returning his gaze to the ceiling and he felt two warm tears roll down the sides of his face, but it wasn't because of the sunlight.

He reluctantly pulled back the covers and sat on the edge of the bed, rubbing his neck. He grabbed his phone from the nightstand and unplugged it from its charger as he slipped on his house shoes.

He tucked his brown shoulder-length curls behind his ears and pressed the Home button. His vision was momentarily blurred and he swallowed harshly at the lock screen picture. After blinking away his tears, he noticed the time.

It was a quarter past seven. Realizing he had two hours to be at his destination, he set his phone down and got up to face the day.

After a hot shower, Harry was dressed in his black trousers and a navy blue buttoned down dress shirt. He completed his ensemble with a matching skinny tie and his brown boots, because they were his wife's favourite.

Harry scrutinized his reflection in the mirror, noting the wrinkles by his eyes and laugh lines around his mouth, but he didn't mind them. To him, they were proof that his fifty-three years of life were mostly happy ones; the last twenty-eight being the best.

As Harry slid the half-Windsor knot up to his neck, his chin began to shake. He cleared his throat and shook his head, willing himself to not cry and he grabbed his comb from the countertop.

After styling his hair that was flecked with a few gray hairs, he set his comb on the vanity and smiled softly. He let his fingertips brush over the soft bristles of the pink hairbrush that hadn't been moved in two months and thirteen days and he remembered the honey blonde hair, that was also flecked with a few gray hairs, that it used to style.

His glossy eyes wandered over the vanity and a tear fell down his cheek when he saw the single strand of pearls, the half-used bottle of perfume and the tube of soft pink lipstick.

And he said a silent prayer that those items would be used by the same wonderful woman some day.

Harry put on his wrist watch and tucked his reading glasses in his shirt pocket. With a heavy sigh, he walked over to his dresser and grabbed his wallet, keys and phone before making his way downstairs.