The Field Beyond the Porch

A beautiful home in a large field of beautiful yellow flowers sits beneath a vibrant and colorful sky.

Ricky and Ester had been together for nearly half a century, and to anyone who knew them, their love was a quiet force. They had met as children in a small town in the South, their families living just down the road from one another. Ricky had often stolen glances at Ester as she skipped rocks across the creek, her laughter ringing through the air like music. He never had the courage to tell her how he felt, but Ester, in her quiet way, already knew. She had loved him as soon as he had started walking home from school with her, their hands brushing against each other, their steps falling in rhythm.

They married young, in a simple ceremony beneath the big oak tree in her parents' yard. The years passed like the soft rolling clouds in the summer sky. They built a life together—raised children, made a home in a small house by the edge of the field, and worked the land that had been in both their families for generations. They didn’t have much by the world’s standards, but what they had was theirs, and that was enough. Their love only deepened with time.

In their later years, the house had become a place of quiet routines. Ricky would wake up early and brew coffee, watching the sun creep over the horizon, painting the sky in shades of pink and gold. Ester, slower now, would join him, her white hair braided neatly as she sipped her coffee, gazing out at the field they had worked so long to cultivate. They still found joy in small moments—Ester tending to the roses in the garden, Ricky carving wood in the evenings by the fire.

But over time, Ester's health began to fade. First, it was a little ache in her back that wouldn't go away, then the shortness of breath that lingered, no matter how much she tried to push through. The doctors had said it was just old age, but Ricky knew it was something more.

The house had never felt so quiet, so still. Ricky would sit beside her in the evenings, holding her hand as they listened to the creaking of the floorboards and the faint chirp of crickets outside. "Remember the day we first kissed?" he would ask, and Ester would smile softly, her frail hand squeezing his. “How could I ever forget? It was the beginning of everything.”

Days turned into weeks, and one evening, Ester became too tired to leave the bed. Ricky, ever her caretaker, had been beside her all day, running his fingers through her silver hair as he told her stories of their past—of the time they had danced in the rain after their first big fight, how they had laughed at their own foolishness, how he had never stopped loving her since that first day she smiled at him.

“Ricky,” she whispered one afternoon, her voice barely more than a breath. “Don’t be sad. You’ve made my life everything I ever wanted. I have no regrets.”

He leaned over and kissed her forehead, his eyes brimming with tears. "I don't know how to let go of you," he said, his voice thick with emotion.

Ester’s eyes fluttered shut, and Ricky thought for a moment she might be asleep. But then, her hand, weak as it was, squeezed his one last time. “I’ll be waiting for you,” she said softly, as though it were a promise. Her breath slowed, and the room fell silent, save for the distant murmur of wind through the trees outside.

When the sun began to set the next day, Ricky sat by her side once more, the house filled with the scent of blooming wildflowers from the field. He could hear the soft rustle of the leaves outside and felt the weight of her absence in the quiet. The silence in the house was now permanent, but somehow, it didn’t feel as empty as it should have. He could almost hear her laughter, feel the warmth of her hand in his, just like it had always been. The world outside—the field they had walked together for so long, the roses she had loved so dearly—reminded him that the love they shared had not vanished, even though she had.

And in that moment, Ricky understood. He didn’t need to let go of her, because she would always be with him. Her love would linger in the very air he breathed, in the field they had nurtured together, in the sweet memories of a life shared in love.

With a deep breath, Ricky stood, his weathered hand brushing over the wooden frame of the door. The sun dipped below the horizon, casting a soft glow over the house and the field. It was bittersweet, yes—his heart heavy with the grief of losing her—but there was joy, too. He would carry her memory with him, every step of the way, and one day, when his time came, he would see her again. Just as she had promised.