Packing 

She had said he could keep one thing. He had promised her he would get rid of everything else. 

So here he was, packing away all her dresses and coats in swathes of tissue paper and linen bags. He put her hats in their hat boxes and her shoes in their shoe boxes with the utmost care.

He felt like he was burying them too.

She wanted it all to go to charity, so he was doing what she wanted even though it felt like he was letting her go again - but in carefully wrapped individual pieces.

Promises, Conkers and Sunflowers

Many items had memories attached to them - the duck-egg blue skirt suit she wore to church. 

Her ruby red woollen winter overcoat with conkers and dried sycamore leaves still in the pocket – (the last ones she had collected) the pale primrose-yellow summer coat with a dried out tiny sunflower he had picked for her - still wrapped in her handkerchief.

He had promised her, so here he was packing it all away.

But he removed the conkers, the dried sycamore leaves and the tiny sunflower. 

He kept the leaves and sunflower, pressing them into a blank page at the back of their photo album. 

The conkers he randomly planted using his walking stick on a stroll through the local country park. She would have liked that.

Keepsake

He had decided to keep the dark blue knitted cardigan she always hung around her shoulders to keep away the chill on Autumn nights. 

It was in the Autumn she’d passed. 

It still smelled of her and her perfume so he couldn’t bear to wash it or let it go.

He also kept her little bottle of Damask Rose perfume. 

This made it two items - but he knew she wouldn’t really mind. 

Bequests and regrets

Her jewellery was split between the nieces and nephews’ wives at her request.

They never had children of their own. 

He hadn’t missed that, as he had her. But he knew she did, and he felt a deep sadness about that. But there wasn’t anything that could be done about it now - it just wasn’t meant to be.

Her engagement and wedding rings he wore along with his own wedding ring. He didn’t care if people thought it odd. 

So, okay - it was four things he kept – ‘So sue me!’ he said smiling at his wife’s photo perched on the dresser next to the bed. From her static sepia state, she smiled back at him.

He sighed so deeply his soul felt it.

A catalogued life

He looked around him. He was surrounded by all the neatly packed boxes in a multitude of sizes. Her life catalogued, labelled and parcelled up ready to be shipped out. 

He felt a last-minute pull at his heart and wanted to put his arms around it all and keep it safe, but what was the point? 

She wasn’t there to use them, and this is what she had wanted – for them to be of use and not collecting moths in the wardrobe/attic until they would have to be thrown away – ‘'It’s wasteful!’' she had said.

He hoped he was doing the right thing and wouldn’t regret it in a couple of days.

House = Home?

The house now felt empty and inanimate. Just bricks and mortar now – dull, silent, dismal. Frozen sepia – just like her photograph.

When she was there, the house had a soul of its own it breathed as they breathed it felt what they felt but now it seemed like it had left with her. At least she wasn’t on her own he thought.

Busy doing nothing

After all her things had gone, he kept himself busy tending the garden she loved – along with the orchids and the potted Damask Rose in the little tropical greenhouse his wife’s nephew had bought him.

The surprise

On the day that would have been their 53rd wedding anniversary – his first one without her - he received a small parcel in the post.

He opened the sturdy wrapping, which was covered in international postage stamps and Customs stickers and reams of bubble wrap.

Inside he found a small oblong wooden object which looks like a very smart pencil box to him. 

It was made of light oak with a golden waxy sheen as if it had been dipped in beeswax and polished again and again for some years. An inlaid pattern of intertwining climbing roses in silver grey and red ran around the box in a spiral from top to bottom.

Also enclosed was a letter from his beloved wife.

He opens the letter, his heart thumping, his mouth suddenly dry. A waft of her perfume invaded his senses, overwhelming him for a moment.

His eyes misted over just at the thought of her arranging this while she was so ill. 

Again, he marvelled at her strength of will.

It read:

‘'Hello my love, Happy Anniversary! 

I didn’t want to get you the usual slippers this year and I know you love a good cigar now and again.

I have been assured this is a very special cigar and is one of the most beautiful, aromatic cigars in the world. Only one batch of them is made per generation of this cigar making family and is laboriously made by the Master Cigar Maker himself.

It took a lot of finding I have to say. 

I hope it brings you happiness - enjoy! 

Happy Anniversary Darling xx’'

He felt a catch in his throat and realised he was crying.

He reread the note several times. ‘'Happy Anniversary, Love’' he said.

Also enclosed is a handwritten card from the cigar makers, ‘Dulces Suenos’.

‘’Dear Patron, 

The enclosed cigar is made from pure Cuban tobacco - each leaf hand-plucked with deep reverence by a shaman of great power from tobacco plants only known to her. 

It is imbibed with herbal essences and an incantation to bring forth good memories.

As it is smoked, every beautiful memory will come back to you more vivid than when they first happened. You will be in a state of bliss.

However, be warned - as the cigar burns down, each of those memories will fade and you will never be able to recollect those memories again.

Enjoy your purchase carefully.

Master Cigar Maker, Sr. Pedro Hernandez, 

Dulces Suenos.''

He laughed lightly at the ominous warning, but then thought of his wife and how much trouble she must have gone to. A feeling of quiet solemnity came over him.

The Cigar

He pulled open the lid of the box – the inside as plain as the outside was ornate. He carefully lifted the contents out of its ‘nest’. 

He inhaled deeply, breathing in the heady aroma of the cigar as he rolled it along between his nose and his top lip.

The Vision

He could see in his mind’s eye, the individual tobacco plants scattered through the dense Cuban jungle. They looked slightly more ‘real’ than the surrounding foliage. A tinge of electric blue perhaps, he wasn’t sure.

He swore he caught glimpses of the hooded figure of the shaman - her gnarled, tattooed hands carefully peeling away a leaf from each plant as she wove her way through the jungle. ‘‘Stop watching me!’’ was the warning he heard whispered in his ear.

Not the time

He snaps back to his senses. He sighs deeply, shaking his head slightly as if to loosen the image from his brain. He puts the cigar back in its box again, rereads both notes and says to himself ‘‘No, this is not the time’’.

Now and again, he would take out the box and reread the message from his wife. Sometimes feeling sad that she gave up precious time searching for something which seemed so mundane as a cigar - but when he held it and breathed it in, he felt the power within it. 

Each time he would say to himself ‘'No, this is not the time’'.

The Last Autumn

A few years later, he is a resident in a home for the elderly and infirm.

He knows he is dying and feels alone. The Autumn has recently arrived which reminds him of his darling wife. This time of the year always hit him the hardest.

He asks the nurse to take him outside for some fresh air.

She leaves him in the garden at his favourite spot near the roses. 

He can see the small greenhouse where they let him grow his orchids and the beautiful Damask Rose he brought with him. 

His wife always wore red rose lipstick and a dab of Damask Rose perfume behind her ears, on her wrists and the back of her knees - he never asked her why she did that, he just marvelled at her elegance. 

But he is too frail and too tired to look after the greenhouse now.

Now or Never

As he sat there, a blanket pulled across his aching knees. he pulls the cigar box from out of the linen bag on his lap and draws out the cigar.

‘'Well old friend, it’s now or never'' he says with a wistful chuckle.

He rolls the cigar under his nose, taking in its sweet aroma, undiluted by time.

Then he clips off the end and lights it.

The nurse will not be happy, but this last defiance made him smile from ear to ear like an errant schoolboy.

He draws heavily on the cigar until he feels the deep heavy smoke being pulled into his lungs with each intake of breath.

He holds the smoke within him for a few seconds with each draw - then breaths it out of his nostrils slowly, like a contented old dragon. 

First Memory

He feels a memory creeping into his plane of vision and filling all his senses – the known and unknown to him until now.

It was the day he went fishing with his Dad for the first time. 

He was about five years old. 

His bubbling excitement, the summer sun bouncing along the water which sparkled like swirling diamonds - the tiny silver fish practically jumping on to the hook and into the net. 

The smell of Dad’s lime shaving soap and dark Brylcreemed hair as he helped him attach the fishing flies to the hooks. 

The cinnamon-warm, twirling hug he got from his Mum when he showed her their catch of tiny fish. Her sparkling blue eyes, cherry-pink smile and the waft of her Chanel No 5 she always sprayed through her brown chestnut hair. 

All there, but more real than when it actually happened. 

Every drop of water felt, the colour and sheen of every water-skipped pebble as it bounced across the stream marvelled at, then plopping into the shallow weedy depths, startling the fish and crustaceans alike.

Broken reverie 

The nurse gently shook his shoulder, breaking his reverie and asked if he wanted to go back indoors. Annoyed that the spell had been broken, he churlishly snapped at her that - no, he wanted to finish the cigar now, today and to leave him be. He felt an urgency to do it today. 

He greedily clamped the cigar tightly between his teeth (all still his own) and ‘growled’ slightly in case the nurse tried to separate him from its deliciousness.

She tutted, rolled her eyes heavenward and went back indoors whispering to herself ‘'Silly old fart – you’ll catch your death for the sake of nicotine!’'.

Not letting go

As the aromatic smoke curled around him, it made him look like a wizened magician as he sat swathed in his wife’s dark blue woolly cardigan, the hood pulled over his head. He had hung on to this cigar all this time – he wasn’t letting it go now, not right at the end.

Again he drew deeply on the smooth ‘smoke’. 

No frills - no ribbons

Another memory hits his visual cortex - It was the first time he saw the love of his life. 

This was so bittersweet - he knew he was going to now lose this memory, but he couldn’t help but be drawn to it like a tiger moth to a blazing bonfire in the middle of the wilderness.

He had been dazzled by her gentle sweetness and the uncomplicated practical way she dressed – no frills – no ribbons. That one odd strawberry blond curl at the nape of her neck that drove her mad as it would never stay pinned up - but he secretly loved. 

Her rose lipstick and the pale green eyeshadow she wore that made the green in her hazel eyes pop. The lavender stuffed pouches she insisted on putting in all the dresser drawers and the wardrobes. 

The way she curled her fingers through his wavy dark hair just behind his left ear when they sat together on the settee and drove him to distraction. 

The wedding

Next came their wedding day – The panicked reflection in his blue/grey eyes in his bathroom mirror at the thought she may not turn up. 

The butterfly feeling he got in the pit of his stomach when he saw her at the back of the church so beautiful in her cream pencil skirt suit with Broderie Anglaise lace highlighting her crisp white linen blouse - the only ‘frippery’ (as she called it) she would allow herself. 

She had refused to wear a veil as she said she wanted to see where she was going. Instead, she wore a little spray of ‘Sweet Honesty’ flowers in her swept-up hair which made them look like little white angel bells. 

‘'You’re here'’ he’d whispered at the altar ‘'Of course I’m here – it’s where I want to be'’ she’d whispered back.

He had roared laughing when she had refused to say the ‘obey’ bit of the wedding vows - refusing to carry on with the ceremony as she would not vow to ‘obey’ any man and would not make any man vow to obey her. 

It was eventually resolved after some serious whispered negotiations in the Vestry while the guests wondered what was going on. Then a hurried change of word from ‘Love, honour and obey’ to ‘Love, honour and cherish’ which they were both happy to take an oath of.

 The vicar heaving a sigh of relief and muttering something about ‘modern girls’.

That was her. To a ‘T’.

They blushed when they kissed at the altar. 

That first night together (she had made him wait and he was happy to for she was worth waiting for) they were so scared and hesitant it took a week of tries before they got it right.

All the memories flooded in, overwhelming him. The joy of remembering so vivid, so fresh, so vibrant.

The day was getting on. The nurse brought out a mug of tea and a blanket for his shoulders and an extra one for his legs. 

She told him not to stay out there too long and chided him for smoking but in a gentle way. She knew there was no point shouting - what was the harm now?

She told him to be careful and not set fire to himself.

He nodded a ‘thank you’ to her. She patted his arm and went inside.

The taste of Ceylon

He drank his tea - it tasted soooo good. 

The cigar even enhanced the flavour of his brew.

He could smell the tea bushes and the leaf-drying rooms of Ceylon and the camphor infused teak boxes the loose tea was packed in. 

The smell of the morning dew sizzling on the tops of the tea bushes in the heat of the day but still all dark and earthy, soft and moist underneath. 

Memories of drinking tea as a boy with condensed milk instead of ‘green top’. 

His Mum sneaking a quarter spoon of sugar in it ‘for energy’ she had said. 

The sticky sweet strong brew his dad drank (builders tea mum called it - two tea bags and three heaped sugars).

Ashes

Visions came and went as the cigar slowly burned like an incense stick. 

He tapped the cigar on the corner of the ashtray to catch the heavy ashes as they fell - reminding himself to add this ash to the pot of his Damask Rose in the greenhouse.

The remaining stub of cigar seemed to burn slower, as if giving him more time to savour the memories for as long as it could. 

Finally, he drew the last of the smoke into his body and it felt like sunshine. 

He kept it inside him as long as he could hold his breath for - but eventually he had to exhale and take in new air. 

He dropped the remains of the cigar into the ashtray. They reduced totally to ash as he watched.

The Last Waltz

His final vision was of their 50th wedding anniversary. 

She, still beautiful, still wearing her Damask perfume and rose lipstick and as they danced, she reached up her hand to curl his now grey hair behind his left ear. 

He laughed as they twirled gently across the floor. ‘'Let’s dance forever'’ she whispered. ‘'I miss you, it’s time we were together again'’. 

He felt himself nod off, but then he stirred to the touch of her fingers curling his hair just behind his left ear. He lifted up his arm and gently cupped his hand around hers. 

He looked into her eyes and said ‘‘I’m ready if you are my lovely’’. 

‘'Of course I’m ready my love - it's why I'm here'' she said smiling.

She gently pulled him up out of his chair and they waltzed around the rose garden one more time and then they were gone…

He had waited until now to smoke the cigar - until he knew it wouldn’t matter about losing his memories as he would be with her again.

The nurse came out about ten minutes later. She saw his head lolled to the side as if asleep. She sighed and shook her head slightly.

She took his pulse at his wrist and neck then radioed for a Medic, but she knew he was gone. 

‘'Wish all my oldies went so peacefully'’ she said sniffling slightly and smoothing his hair down on the left side of his head.

They came and took his body away after all the checks and paperwork had been completed.

She tipped the last of his mug of tea and the cigar ash onto the soil around the Damask Rose in the greenhouse and mulched it in with her hand. She got a flash in her mind of a couple dancing together – and then it was gone.

She closed the greenhouse door, promising to the air around her not to worry as she would look after it. Strolling back towards the house, his mug in her hand  - she hummed a ‘waltz’ to herself.