Dream
A lovely little cottage, white-painted with a matching white fence. Along the inside perimeter, an array of flowers, all colourful and well-tended. Up the pathway he went. Bert had never seen anything so lovely. So comforting.
He knocked on the door. Unsure as to why, but he knew that someone would answer the door.
And they did. Or rather, she did.
Mary was waiting for him, a greeting and his name sounding so simple when she said it. Words she had said so many times before, yet he never grew tired of hearing them.
Stepping across the threshold, there wasn't much to say that they hadn't already talked about. How he was doing, how she was, who she cared for now, and which chimney sweep had fallen for a girl he met while out and about. All those familiar topics that felt safe and needed.
They sat hand-in-hand, drinking raspberry tea and eating cucumber sandwiches (a favourite of his). Makes him refined, he always said. To which she replied that he was already a gentleman. He made a point of holding out his pinkie while he ate them; it never failed to make her laugh.
Then they had danced awhile, holding each other close as the radio played. First, a waltz; after, the Charleston. He had danced that on his own. Mary would not even entertain the notion. Finally completed by a slow dance; the soulful voice of Vera Lynn marking their goodbye.
We'll meet again. Don't know where, don't know when.
Not entirely true. He knew where. At their usual spot at the Park or, if they were lucky, when she returned to her Uncle Albert's on her holidays between work. She would catch him cleaning the chimney, painting the spare bedroom, or fixing a jammed window.
With a lingering kiss, they held each other's hands, caught between their bodies as they became distracted. It had been too long.
He went back down the path with a cheery wave, a cucumber sandwich wrapped in his handkerchief, resting in his pocket. She waved back, a little more solemn, her hand reaching up to grasp the silver locket around her neck.
"We'll meet again," he called to her.
"I'm sure we will," she answered.
And then Bert was staring at his ceiling, having awoken from his dream. Knowing somewhere on this Earth, she was waking too.
Disbelievers would say that it was all in the mind. Mary couldn't possibly speak to him in his dreams, but Bert knew better. Whistling his way to work that morning, he munched on the cucumber sandwich that he had kept in his pocket. A perfect way to start the day.