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        The morning light pierced through the thin slats of the venetian blinds. It cast a rich amber glow on Molly's eiderdown. Her eyes slowly opened. Another day, she sighed, to be punctuated by the tedious sameness of the days that had gone before. Molly reached over to her bedside locker and placed her wedding ring on her finger. Hands that were once so white and unblemished were now gnarled and dotted with age spots. 
        She lovingly touched the ring, feeling the sepia drenched memories flood through her. " Molly, you'll be late" yelled her mother as she had stood in front of the mirror in her bedroom, seeing herself for the last time as a single woman. Molly would soon be married to Michael, the man of her dreams, the love of her life. And in the church that was lit by a myriad of crimson and cream candles, she had promised to love, honour and cherish him 'til death.
        "You may now kiss the bride" said the priest.
        Dearest Michael lifted her veil and for a second before he kissed her she looked into his deep warm eyes. She had never felt so happy. They were both fuelled with the hope and optimism of their youth. 
        It was sixty years ago that she had promised to love Michael forever. Back then forever seemed a very long time, so far into the future that it never cast her a thought. Besides she didn't have time to think what with raising Nell, their precious only child. A single solitary tear slid down Molly's lined cheek. Nell. After all those years she could still hear and smell her. Her sweet melodious voice calling out for her mother as she stumbled in from school. "Mama, I'm home." She would sit on Molly's knee as she read her stories like "The Little Match Girl". Nell used to snuggle into her, sucking her thumb, her imagination captured by the story. 
        Molly's home radiated with joy and laughter, created by the strands of love between the three of them. Sunday morning they used to stay in bed for an extra hour and giggle and tell stories. Nell would relate her tales from school and Michael would tell them about the animals on the farm. Once Michael brought home a puppy and Nell wanted to call her Mathilda. Mat or Mattie would not do. It had to be Mathilda. Molly could still recall her gentle doleful eyes and the softness of her red coat. 
        Some memories Molly could treasure, others were too painful to be instantly recalled. She was on her own now, for what seemed to be a very long time. Nell never had the chance to grow up and have a family of her own. She was only ten when she fell off her pony. Death was instant. The doctor said that it was a blessing as her brain injuries would have left her as an invalid. This didn't console Molly as she wept over her child's inert body for hours. Her angel was gone back to God and she would never hold her again. 
Michael was never the same afterwards. He was there for Molly and loved her just the same but a part of him died with his daughter. This could have contributed to the cancer that claimed him less than a decade later. 
At forty Molly was left alone to tend the farm and earn her living. She survived with the help of her family and neighbours until at the age of sixty two she fell and broke her hip. Then she sold the farm and moved into a modern bungalow adapted to her needs. 
        Twenty years later she was still here. Molly could hear the next door neighbour Sean driving past her house. Time to get up and have a nice cup of tea and toast. She heaved herself out of her bed and shuffled into the kitchen. Not a bad day, she thought, as she looked out at the mackerel sky. She had a list of jobs to do for today, clear the leaves from the front garden, bake bread, maybe she would take a trip into town. She smiled. Her golden happy memories would fill her with light like an inward sun and would warm her through the long winter that lay ahead.