He watches from his studio. She walks in the garden she loves, looking, bending, weeding, scratching. He thinks. I still love her, just like when we were teenagers so many years ago, I love her the same. He told me.
He watches again, another day. She feeds the birds on the deck in front of their kitchen. The kitchen looks out over the valley. The valley they saw forty years ago when looking to buy. It reminded them of their village in England where they grew up.
"We'll take it," they said, even before they had seen inside the house.
He watches from the kitchen, this other day. She trips and falls as she puts seed in the feeder. Her head hits the timber rail. He rushes to her, lying on the deck. She is dead, her neck broken.
He told me. "I was watching her. She fell. In an instant she was dead, my beautiful wife, the love of my life. Gone. There with me, then gone, in an instant."
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