The Frame

Evelyn leant against the wall, an empty hook above her, a frame three feet from her lay on the ground looking a little more tattered than moments before. It contained a photograph from four years prior of herself and her only love, Henry. Her heart was racing, her mind confused - this was the second time the photo had hurled itself backward off its hook. “Are you there, love?” she thought, focusing on trying to bridge the void between the world and the other side. He’d been gone for two years, three months and 17 days now, yet she could still feel his hand in hers, butterflies in her stomach as though it were the first time 61 years ago. “If you’re there, do it again,” she silently dared him. She braced herself as she rehung the picture. Nothing. She sighed and wandered into the kitchen to make herself her 10:00am international roast coffee. Just as she was opening a packet of scotch finger biscuits to have on the side, *THWACK!* the biscuit packet split open wide as Evelyn jumped through the roof. She dared to glance into the living room. Sure enough, the picture frame was in the middle of the room, face up, perfectly centred with Henry’s shining eyes looking directly up at a photo of the two of them together on their wedding day. “What a beautiful day that was, love. The happiest day of my life,” Evelyn urged through the void. With that, the lamp beside the couch flickered. Evelyn’s grandchildren had told her that the morning Henry had passed, they had all experienced varying power failures at their houses. They’d speculated it was Henry’s sign that he was still somewhere in the universe, a play on their surname of “Power.”

Henry had fallen in love with Evelyn the second she’d clipped him around the ear for stepping on her toes for the third time in as many minutes as she taught him a waltz at the local dance school. Not a man to shy away from a challenge or a strong woman, he’d continued to attend dancing classes and purposely mess up the steps in an effort to get more direct instruction from the beautiful teacher. At their wedding she’d been incredulous that he didn’t make a single misstep during their first dance. The jig was up. No pun intended. He finally confessed that he’d been intentionally terrible to spend more time with her. That had earned him another sore ear before she buried her face deep into his chest and squeezed him that little bit tighter. They’d spent 57 years married. 59 together. As her face bore the years and challenges they’d faced together, rather than thinking the lines diminished her beauty, he had found himself more enamoured by her, recognising himself in some of the creases upon her gorgeous face. He thought she was beautiful on their wedding day, but even more so in old age.

Evelyn left the photo on the ground all day, allowing Henry to gaze up at their wedding photo. She rehung the photo that night before bed, yet when she awoke the next morning, the photo was where it had spent the majority of the day before. She chuckled. “Fine, have it your way, my darling,” she thought. She took out a hammer and nail and hung a new hook on the other side of the room and rehung the frame. When she stepped back and examined her handy work, older Henry was looking directly at their wedding photo - them on the dance floor, her holding him tight; young Henry looking directly at his future - the woman he would love for the rest of his life.

The picture never fell again.