She sits, holding a cup with floral patterns in her old fingers.
They tremble slightly. She sips slowly at the early morning tea, looking out at the back garden. A place where he used to dig. He was no gardener, but he loved digging; he was good at that. She held out the cup and squinted at the flowers and the fancy handle, once part of a set of six. Now, three cups and two saucers left after decades of use. She handled them with great care now. Their early morning teas together never varied. It was something that was theirs, just a few minutes at a time. Their daily moments, private, undisturbed, precious. She has kept this ritual, now silent. Nobody shares these minutes. No one is told that they ever happened or that they go on.
She knows that she is not alone in this. Knows that there are so many more out there, just like her; on their own and left with bittersweet memories. There was never any real sadness in this special time. Only fond memories of a happy life.
She went to the sink and washed the cup, and with a sigh… she returned to loneliness.
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