When Anthea’s husband passed away they had been married for thirty-eight years. They had no children. Don’t get me wrong; they’d tried frequently, furiously and fruitlessly to make a baby. And now Anthea was on her own.
The time between the death and the funeral was a roller-coaster ride. She had to organise the funeral service: select a coffin, arrange for flowers, for pall-bearers, for a church minister, for hymns, for an organist... She was busy, busy, busy.
Then friends visited. It was cup of tea after cup of tea. There was little time for mourning. She sometimes wished the visitors would disappear, but she was nonetheless grateful for their presence.
And then came the evening and the night. She never knew a night could be so dismal and so long. So lonely. So bleak. Such fearful unending darkness.
Anthea sat on the end of the bed and waited. And waited.
Dawn broke.