**Farewell**
The deep, dark night faded, bringing closer the inevitable moment of parting. Dawn approached. Barbara had spent the whole night by the coffin of her late husband, lost in memories of her life with John. Both had grown old together.
“John lived seventy-six good years,” Barbara thought to herself. She was three years younger. “He might’ve lived longer if not for the illness.”
“You were a good husband and father, John,” she murmured aloud as daylight crept in, revealing his face more clearly than the candlelight had. “Loyal, too—and heaven knows you had plenty of temptations. Oh, how swiftly life passes.”
All night, memories tugged at her heart like pages turned in a book—fifty-three years of joys and sorrows, a lifetime by any measure.
When John realised he wouldn’t rise again, he kept telling her, “Barb, love, God’s punishing me for my sins. Must’ve lived wrong, thought wrong.” But she soothed him.
“Don’t torment yourself, John. You’ve lived a good life. No drink, no nonsense like some, always loved me and our Emily. You’re just rambling—what sins?” He’d listen and quieten.
By morning, their daughter Emily bustled in the kitchen. She’d come alone from the city—no husband, long divorced. Her daughter, Barbara’s granddaughter, had just had a second baby, so she hadn’t come. No farewell for Grandad. Ah well—at least she’d spent summers here as a child.
Emily had been the one who flew the nest early, their only surviving child. Two others had died—one after a day, the other a week. Barbara had fussed over Emily like a hen, terrified of losing her too. But God had spared her.
Before finishing school, Emily declared, “Mum, Dad, I’m off to the city after this. I won’t stay in the village. I know I’m your only one, meant to care for you in old age, but city life’s livelier.”
“Fair enough,” John agreed instantly. Barbara dabbed her eyes with her headscarf.
“Oh, love, how will we manage without you?” She nearly wept, but John shot her a look.
“Don’t fuss, woman. Let her make her way. No sense tethering her here. Plenty of milkmaids without her.”
Barbara understood, but fear gnawed at her. Emily left, trained as a shopkeeper, married, and never returned.
Barbara and John lived mostly alone, working the farm, harmony between them. In later years, they’d fetch their granddaughter for summers. But she grew up, her visits dwindling. Her own life now—though the old pair missed her.
“Remember how she loved haymaking, then splashing in the brook?” Barbara smiled faintly, recalling her squeals as John dipped her in, teaching her to swim.
“Mum?” Emily slipped in quietly.
“Just reminiscing. Sit with me, love. Say goodbye to your dad in peace before the village crowds in. They’ll all come—John was respected. Never harmed a soul, always helped.”
Emily sat, pressing close, an arm around her mother.
“I’m glad you take after him, love. Time’ll blur his face in my mind, but you’re his image.” Barbara swayed gently.
“Mum, how did you and Dad meet? We’ve never spoken of it.”
“Well, love, it was odd. He latched onto me at first sight—like glue!”
“How? Where were you?”
“I worked the farm, always top of the milk yields. Got sent to a county meeting for it—won a certificate and a little wristwatch! None of the village girls had one. They took us on tours, folk from all over. Mostly women, few men.”
Afterward, they ate in a canteen. John sat nearby, staring—unsettling, really. Tall, handsome, but shabby clothes. No woman’s hand there, she guessed. And village lads were scarce, off to cities or army, never returning.
Barbara sighed deeply, reliving it. As she left, a voice rasped:
“Take me with you. Name’s John. And you?”
“Barbara,” she said stiffly. “You don’t even know where I live—middle of nowhere. Swap the city for that?”
“I’ll go,” he said. “Bachelor life’s dull. I’m coming, Barb.”
And he did. Charmed her straight off. Turned up at her parents’, announcing:
“Good day. I’d like your daughter’s hand. Sorry it’s abrupt, but I’ve no house, no land. Just took a shine to Barb. I’ll be a steady husband.”
Her parents gaped.
“Emily, we sent you to a meeting, not husband-hunting!” her father said.
“Just happened,” she mumbled. “But I’ll have him.”
They wed that Saturday. Quick village affair—tables in the yard, neighbours of all ages. Then came ordinary days, a happy life.
Folks envied them. “What a catch Barb got! Tall, handsome—though such men stray,” the gossips clucked.
“Just wait,” old Agatha muttered. “Time’ll tell. Pretty ones never resist widows.”
Talk reached them, but they laughed. John had eyes only for Barbara.
“Barb, love, I adore our Emily—adore you. Don’t know what I’d have done without you. Like lightning struck me toward you. No other woman exists for me.”
She believed him. Though temptations came.
Once, during haymaking, Flo—village flirt, widowed young—sidled up to John. Women loathed her. Lured men with homemade gin, tangled hair-pulling fights with wives. Undeterred.
She’d eyed John at their wedding. “Fine bit of luck Barb had. I’ll bide my time.”
Barbara saw her antics—playful nudges, whispers: “Johnny, meet me behind the barn tonight. Learn what heat is.”
John worked on, silent. Only smiled at Barbara, reassuring.
Later, at the brook, Flo splashed, clutching his arm. “Save me if I drown!”
“Why?” he said bluntly. “I’ve my own to mind.” His gaze fixed on Barbara, her secret smile just for him.
Her heart fluttered. What if he yielded?
He never did. Passed Flo by, faint smirk his only reply.
“I love you for that,” Barbara told him later.
“Promised you and your folks I’d be true. Life’s nothing without you.”
“That was our love, Emily. You’re his image—and such a joker he was.”
In old age, John’s sight failed. One eye left.
“Went to town hospital in a blizzard,” Barbara recalled. “Knew he’d not return that night. Roads blocked. I lay awake, dawn near, when—knocking. Opened to a snowman, voice faint: ‘Missus, which village is this?’ Eyes dancing like imps. John! Walked miles through that storm. Still don’t know how.”
Mother and daughter sat embraced by the coffin, weeping softly. Villagers gathered, then filled the house. So they farewelled husband and father.
After the funeral, Emily left. Barbara stayed, haunted by his presence—footsteps, tea on the table. She sat, musing:
“He won’t leave me long. He’ll come for me. Knows I’m lost without him.”
