The bungalow

Fumbling to open the envelope, her breath shudders as she see's the note card before her. Arthritic fingers tremble to separate the folded card, she licks her fingers to try and gain purchase on the shiny thin card. 

The card opens to reveal the familiar swirl of her handwriting, the mere sight of her prose making Lucy's heart skip a beat. Her breathing pauses at the magnitude of the receipt of a word or two from her.

Elegant writing in her signature emerald green ink,

always wanting to stand out from the crowd, setting trends from the beginning.

The tear is not unexpected after word from her for the first time, in the longest time. What is unexpected is the tear coming forth before reading a word, at the sight of Jemma's hand writing.

The plump tear falls in slow motion. Lucy watches as it makes the slow decent, landing on the beautiful script. Causing the green ink to seep, as the moisture returns the writing to a previous state of free flowing ink. A panic engulfs Lucy as she bends to gently blow and blot at the letter I, which the tear chooses as the watery victim.

With the care usually bestowed on a priceless antique or Grandmama's best china she places the note card down onto the mahogany side table. The table which takes pride of place next to Lucy's floral, flocked riser chair since the day she moved into her bungalow. Admitting defeat and downsizing from the grandeur she grew accustomed to.

Activation of the chair is a challenge with her fingers refusing to manipulate the controls as her brain is directing them to. Getting old is rubbish, she shakes her head smiling at the stupidity of her thoughts. Many never get the blessing of making the sunset years, every day she see's as a blessing no matter how painful this particular blessing may be.

Slipping her feet into her carpet slippers, Lucy walks the short distance to the cabinet. Thankful her lower limbs are yet to display the same stiffness and aches she encounters in her upper body. Opening the door retrieving a packet of tissues, and her mobile phone before retracing her steps.

The golden marigold on the card instantly transports her to a time in the distant past, and a conversation about marigolds versus sunflowers. Which flower is the happiest, the marigold declared the winner after much debate. Due to the marigolds ruffle of petals which resemble a ra-ra skirt, or the dress of a Disney princess. The face of the marigold always stands tall and proud, neck back, and face to the sun.

Whereas the sunflower is beautiful, with a huge sunshine plate of a face, the sheer weight of the sunflower in contrast makes the head bow in humble apology. Lucy positions herself to descend into her chair as she reaches for the card from 'her marigold.' 

Once settled she sends a text to her friend, Judith. Feigning illness and putting off their weekly coffee until tomorrow. Worried, Judith offers to come over, the text being so out of character. Lucy never cancels their meetups, as lonely as they are they look forward to seeing each other. Making an excuse to avoid the visit, again she fumbles to open the card, with a long shuddering sigh she begins to read.

"Dearest Lucy," begins the elegant script. Lucy fights the lump in her throat gulping, desperate to swallow and unable. Eyes start to tingle with the first sign of the tear ducts preparing to release their grip and allow the flood to commence.

"I wish I had written to you sooner, as soon as I left. I toyed with the idea of getting in touch every day, I hope you still think of me with fond memories. Not the foolish, naive, selfish being I became, ignorant to you and everything you taught me."

A dab at her eyes with one of the tissues, a fruitless attempt to stave off the inevitable. 

Never, ever thought of you as those things. Continuing to read.

"I do not regret anything in my life apart from the hurt and upset I undoubtedly caused you, followed by the fear of apologising and admitting my flaws."

We all have flaws, you are not alone.

"Pride is such a pitiful emotion. Do not assume this outreach is to beg for your forgiveness, I am not worthy of this honour."

Unable to hold herself together, Lucy clutches the card to her chest. Huge sobs of grief pour from her, as her withered hands tremble so much she fears crumpling her card. The painful hollow emptiness of a gapping hole in her chest, physical pain takes her breath away. Several minutes pass before she can continue.

"A mere note to ensure you are aware of how you are in my thoughts every day. With love and best wishes, your marigold."

My marigold, through the teary misery a familiar smile twitches at the edge of her downturned mouth. The laughter lines surrounding her face are from long ago, many are the cause of the writer of the note, along with several grey hairs and frown marks. She is happy, she accepts the rough with the smooth, the laughter outweighs everything else.

Hundreds of memories flood through her thoughts and she smiles to herself. Eventually the tears slow to a trickle and stop. Edging to the front of the chair pushing herself up with an energy she's missed for many years. 

A cup of tea is what I need.

With tea in hand and cocooned in floral chintz comfort. She presses the phone symbol on her phone, the need to go via her contacts as opposed to recent numbers gives another stab of pain and regret.

We are both stubborn fools.

"Hi Jem, I got your beautiful note," Lucy said, full of fear for the response.

"Lucy?" Jemma asked.

"Yes, how are you,"

"I'm so glad you are calling me, how are you?"

"Old," Lucy laughed as she stated the obvious, Jemma joined in. The music of her laughter takes Lucy back.

"I didn't want to do this but being selfish yet again I have to, I'm dying." Jemma drops the words, turning every ounce of lightness to pitch black in Lucy's world. "Are you there?" She asks the silence from Lucy's end of the line.

"I--" unable to speak, to say the things she needs to. Too full of her own grief to communicate.

"I mean everything in the card, this wasn't done because of my impending death. I wish I did this so much sooner," Jemma said, with the rushed tones of her nervousness and the lack of reaction she receives.

"How long?"

"Best guess, a couple of years--" Jemma trails off.

Swallowing hard to try and control the emotion in her voice Lucy wipes at her eyes.

"In your note you said," she reached for the card to remind herself. "'I hope you still think of me with fond memories. Not the foolish, naive, selfish being I became, ignorant to you and everything you taught me.'"

"Yes."

"Jem, I was not your teacher, I was your wife."

"I am and will forever be--your best friend. Come home to me, let us spend our last years in happiness reminiscing about how ignorant, stupid and selfish we were in our youth."

The line goes silent, Jemma finally breaks the silence with a shaky voice, "If you really mean this I would love nothing more. I never stopped loving you, being a star meant everything and doing so I lost my everything."

"You never lost me, and I never stopped loving you either."

Plans get drawn up for Jemma to waste no time and book the next plane 'home,' they can arrange shipping everything from the bungalow, her forever home. They figure the project is a fun exercise to do together, trying to squeeze all her belongings in.

A new lease of life fills Lucy with a childlike excitement, she has no illusion losing Jemma to an incurable disease isn't something to be excited about. Spending the last years of her life on this earth together, well that's something which causes the butterflies in her stomach to take flight. Friday cannot come soon enough, when her marigold will walk through the modest door.

No more million dollar mansions, and lavish meals with hanger on-ers. A tiny warm and cozy home full of pictures of the life they shared while married, before Jemma left to seek fame and fortune. As a child star, Lucy was aware of who Jemma was before their chance encounter, and the undeniable connection was apparent immediately. When together the rest of the world fades away.

Will everything be the same between us?

Friday finally arrives along with Jemma, they hug both eyes mirroring the tears of happiness tinged with sadness at how much they lost. Cottage pie aromas waft from the pokey kitchen and Jemma grins, shaking her head.

"You have, haven't you?"

"Of course, your favourite. Remember the first time I cooked cottage pie for you?You proposed right away," Lucy reached out her crooked hand taking Jemma's and leading the way to the kitchen.

"Easiest decision I ever made," Jemma's head tilts to the left and her eyes gaze off into the distance recalling the moment as though only yesterday. Lucy begins to serve them, Jemma sets the table and pours them a glass of the duty free champagne she bought at the airport.

"To us," chinking glasses as Lucy eases herself into the dining chair next to Jemma. A habit of sitting next to each other rather than facing across a table formed early in their relationship. Their eyes lock as they remember the trip to Paris, in the pavement cafe with the chairs set this way to watch the world go by.

"I remember," Lucy takes Jemma's face in her hands. Kissing her with a soft passion, unable to mask a lifelong love as eternal as the wedding band she still wears on her left hand ring finger. 

A simple circle of gold, never ending, with no beginning and no end. Jemma reaches to take her hands in her own, holding her own left hand over the matching wedding band she wears with a subtle difference. A heart surrounds a tiny Marigold engraved on the inside.