She sat at the dining room table, head in her hands, sobbing deep heart rending cries. He was gone, her Tom, her husband of over thirty years, faithful companion and friend.
The funeral had been appropriate, with all the right things being said: that he had been a fine man, like none other, that he had gone on to a better place. Elsbeth knew all these things were true, but hated the insincerity of the occasion and was glad to have put it behind her.
But now she was alone, and the ticking clock that echoed through the house was a solemn reminder of time's haste and the brevity of life. Her son Andrew had stood by her dutifully, helping to sort out the arrangements and comfort her, but he had his own life, and so departed, leaving her to her sorrow and thoughts of happier times.
