The photograph was taken in the KwaZulu midlands last year, the story is just that – a story.
The creak of her chair woke her up. She started, caught in the threads of a wonderful dream. A dream where Jimmy was still here, where she would step out on the porch and see him tying up at the jetty and come striding through the wildflowers, home to her.
The sadness gripped her heart, now all she had was his chair. It matched hers exactly, he had thought she was a silly goose when she insisted on a pair but now it made her smile. She could see the sag in the strapping and the shiny patina on the arms, the only visible signs of the passage of time and a lifetime of being together.
Not always happy times she thought as she struggled to her feet, the war and the depression had taken their toll but they’d stuck together through all of it. Jimmy would have liked today, the water was quiet and the mist rolling slowly down the hills like someone was shaking out a blanket. What did he used to call it, like a painting by van Gogh or something like that. He was a dreamer, was her Jimmy. She shivered, suddenly overtaken by a cold gloom and wrapped her shawl around her thin shoulders. The sky was darkening and over the way she could see the cows turning for home.
Time to go inside, she thought, tomorrow she would be back tomorrow.