Lesson 1: Saturday Night

Tick…. Tock.
The silver second hand continues its hypnotic cycle.
Tick…. Tock.
The white face looks out at the room, waiting, watching.
Tick…. Tock.
A deep breath whistles into creaking lungs.
Tick…. Tock.
A snore rattles out.
Tick…. Tock.
The ebony minute hand nears its highest point.
Tick…. Tock.
It was almost time, and the grandfather clock stood proudly next to the fireplace, its pendulum weights swinging effortlessly to and fro.
Tick… Tock.
The familiar, distinctive chime shatters the silence and the inactivity of the house.
Tick… Tock.
A snuffle as he awakens from his evening slumber.
Tick… Tock.
Shrivelled muscles flexing as he pushes down on the worn padding of his favourite armchair.
Tick… Tock.

His elbows creak as they straighten, and his knees pop. Groaning as the arthritic ache kicks in like the never-ending sea breaking over the slowly wearing rock.

Shuffling to the kitchen, he opened the oven door, lifting it slightly from its catch to prevent it from scraping and sticking. Like him, the cooker had seen better days. As had the pie. The harsh odour hit his hairy nostrils before he saw the blackened and crispy crust.
The only store within hobbling distance only sold their own brand of pie. Nobody cooked steak and kidney pie like Mary. Their Saturday treat.
His heart sags at the weight of his loss. Thumping hard, squeezing as tightly as he held onto his emotions. Last year had been tough, not just the day-to-day grind of looking after himself, or at least trying to, but the depth of his agony every single day. Every hour. Every minute. Every second.
They said it would lessen over time. They said it comes and goes in waves, each tide taking longer to come in. They lied.
Tonight was the anniversary of Mary’s passing, meaning he had lasted twelve whole months. He hadn’t thought he could have survived a day without the support of the magnificent, adventurous lady who had been at his side for over six decades. Their love had grown daily, with only good times, excellent times, or at least that was what he remembered.
Resigned to being hungry again, dropping the ruined pie onto the stained worktop, he grabbed a glass from the side of the sink and rinsed out the remnants from the previous day. A little spot of sherry to toast his beloved wife.
Reaching into the drinks cupboard, his arm cramped, his muscles spasming. I’m getting too old for this, he thought, as he focused on his breathing. Keeping time with the clock that they had been given as a wedding gift.
Tick… Tock.
Breathing air into the cramp in his bicep.
Tick… Tock.
Feeling the heartache deeper than he had ever felt before.
Why was the drinks cupboard so high? A mountain that seemed too far a journey to make. Maybe he should toast with water instead. Mary wouldn’t mind; she wasn’t a drinker anyway. Neither of them were. He liked an occasional pint or three after his cricket games, back in the day. It was usually Jim the Spin that would encourage them all to gather to celebrate or commiserate. He missed those days, but he would swap every game for another hour with Mary.
Glass filled, the hike back to his chair felt much more than the four laboured steps. Struggling for breath, he was thankful to sink into the cushion that moulded into his bony backside. His arm was still cramping, his muscle threatening to pop right out of his thinned-out skin. His breath was sticking, catching in his stomach, paining him as much as the vicious ulcer he had had the year he finally retired. His lungs refused to rise in his chest, and he leant back, accepting his failing body for what it was. Old, tired and broken.
He had lived his life well. He had been happy, and he raised his glass of tap water to thank his wife for all those years, wishing for another day, another hour, even another second, to see her again.
That was when it hit. Like a thunderbolt. A cannon igniting in his heart and spreading through his chest, his arm spasming for one last time. His lungs struggling no more.
Tick… Tock.
The light dimmed as his eyes closed for the final time.
Tick… Tock.
And there she was, radiating golden light and reaching her glowing hands towards his own, inviting him to join her.
Tick… Tock.
He knew it was her, sensing her beloved presence as if their souls had never been apart.
Tick… Tock.
Effortlessly, he stood from the armchair that would not need to support him anymore. At least not his spirit. His body would be there for the next eleven hours until Fred from next door found him on his morning check-up.
Tick… Tock.
Time held no meaning as two beings of light enfolded each other in an embrace, a hug that spanned more than mere decades, but lifetimes together. They faded from the physical world, two blissful soul’s ecstatic to be rejoined again.
Tick… Tock.
Saturday nights would never be the same again, the steam rising from the steak and kidney pie being not the only movement in the house.
Tick… Tock.
The clock hands move endlessly around the white face of the sixty-year-old clock. A reminder that time does not stand still. Each precious moment is to be relished that we have in our brief physical existence, before we move on to our next adventure.
Tick… Tock.