As long as I woke to see the blue of the morning sky, I was alright.
It was always the same. Every morning of every day of every year. My wife and I. It never changed. It was our 7am ritual.
I'd wake up to the sound of our bedside alarm clock at 7 on the dot, and I'd turn over lazily to where my wife had just woken up too.
The first thing I'd see each morning, of my wife, were those eyes. Those blue, blue eyes that never failed to amaze me, no matter how many times I looked at them. And I looked at them alright.
Staring into them was like staring into a whole other world. A deep, beautiful and mysterious world. Where it was just my wife and I.
Those eyes could tell me a lot. About myself, my wife, and the world. Just those eyes.
And it was always the same. Every morning of every day of every year. My wife and I. It never changed.
I'd simply stare into those eyes for a few seconds. And then I'd smile, and kiss her on the lips. "Morning beautiful," I'd say. And she'd smile in return.
Then I'd pull the covers off my side, and get up groggily off the bed. I'd walk over to the bedroom window, and with a sweep of the hand pull the cream coloured curtains across.
Daylight would immediately fill the room. At first I'd be blinded by the morning light, but then after a few seconds I'd see clearly out. And I'd be met with the morning sky. The blue, blue sky. A blue as those eyes that I'd stared into intently just a few moments ago. It was like looking through a magnified mirror glass.
I'd smile once more, and look over towards my wife; still curled up under the covers, but staring at me with a perfect scowl, just as I was met with each morning of every day of every year.
And it was always the same. My wife and I. It never changed.
"Do you always have to do that honey?" she'd say, shielding her blue and gleaming eyes from the morning light.
And once again I'd smile. "I'm afraid I do."
And this went on. Our 7am ritual never changed, even with every morning of every day of every year.
And so it still went on fifty years later, when my wife and I were in our delicate and tender eighties. Our 7am ritual. My wife and I.
Of course we had both changed physically growing older. My wife's previously raven hair had greyed over the years, and her face, though as beautiful as it ever was, now showed age and years of hard work and experience.
But those eyes. Not one thing about them had changed. They still shone the same blue as they always had done. They still mesmerised me with just one look, just one glance. Our own little world, my wife and I.
I thought and believed that it would never, ever change. That it would continue to go on for every morning of every day of every year. Forever.
But of course that was naive. That was just wishful believing. Of course it was. It would never happen. And so I found out that fateful morning.
That morning. It started out exactly the same as it always had done. I was woken up by the 7am alarm. Although well past our working years, we'd continued to get up the same early time. We liked to keep things the same, my wife and I. It reminded us of the old days. When our ritual had been exactly the same.
You could say that it kept us young at heart. We still believed that we were the same Monica and Chandler of fifty years ago, when we were in our adult prime. Of course we were wrong in thinking that. As I would just a few seconds later find out.
I turned over on my side, expecting to see her beautiful face. And those blue, blue eyes that had greeted me each morning for over fifty years. But instead I was met with her sleeping face.
It didn't register at first. Of course it never does. I just stared at her sleeping body, and waited quite huffily for her to eventually meet the morning, and open those eyes of hers.
And still I waited. Until the thought, that dreaded thought, met my mind. Slowly, I reached over and stroked her pallid face. It was stone cold.
And so was her body. Her body that had become more fragile and delicate recently. My eyes didn't leave my wife for all of ten minutes, when eventually, I shakingly and slowly turned away.
Silent tears, tears of shock, washed down my white face. It was all I could do not to scream out in anguish.
This couldn't be happening. But it was.
Had this really happened? It had.
Was I all alone now? I was.
I just couldn't take it in. I'd thought that my wife and I had lived in a circle. A never-ending circle that would carry us through life but never stop. Never come to an end. Just as our 7am ritual had seemed to do over all these years.
Then I suddenly felt stupid. Had I really thought that the two of us were invincible? That we'd both live life for eternity?
Well yes, that's what I had thought. Just as our love for one another kept growing with every second, kept growing stronger and never seemed to end, I'd thought that somehow we were the same.
But why was I so surprised? My wife's brother had died suddenly just last year, and numerous other friends our age had gone from our lives over the past few years as well. It was just a part of everyday life now, at the age we were. At the age I was.
Still crying silent tears, I looked back over to my wife. If I didn't know better, if I didn't know the terrible truth, I'd think she was just sleeping. Like an angel. Because that's what she was, that's what she looked like, her shoulder-length hair framing her worn, but peaceful, face.
The circle was no more. Our circle had gone, had faded, had died. Now all that was left was a line, a long long line. A rough and rocky road that I now had to walk all by myself. All alone. Without my wife.
If dying from heartache existed, I should be dead by now.
Oh why couldn't I have been taken away and my wife still have lived? But then she'd be feeling the same pain and anguish as you are right now.
But she was always so much stronger than me. But now you're the one who has to be strong.
I couldn't keep staring at her. I couldn't. So instead I got up shakingly off the side of the bed, got to my feet.
I couldn't deny it. All visible life had gone from her face. Her soul had gone.
But I could do one thing. One thing that I had always done, every morning of every day of every year.
I walked over to the bedroom window, and with a sweep of the hand pulled the cream coloured curtains across.
Daylight immediately filled the room. Blinded at first, I sat slowly back on to the side of the bed, and stared out.
I was met once again with the morning sky. It was blue. Very blue. Unaturally blue. In all the fifty or so years I'd looked out and seen it, I'd never seen it this blue.
It was almost as if something lingered in the air. But what? All I knew at that moment was that I could stare out at the sky that morning forever. For the rest of my life.
I quickly shut my eyes. And I felt the daylight pour over me, from head to toe. And as quickly as I'd shut them, I snapped my eyes open.
The morning sky was still the same. Unaturally blue. Mesmerisingly blue. Deep, beautiful, and mysterious.
And then I realised. I might have to face the rest of the world alone, but the daylight, as constant as it ever was, would see me through.
As long as I wake to see the blue of the morning sky, I'll be alright.