I wrote this piece a few years ago for a story competition. The brief was a love story in no more than 500 words not including the title. I don't think it justifies a proper posting but it may amuse a few of you.

A Woman’s Life and Love

Unusually for a funeral, it was a glorious day. The mourners perspired in their sombre dress and the heap of soil to refill the grave was already dry. The priest tossed a handful of earth onto the coffin as he mechanically intoned the words. The group at the graveside shuffled and sniffed. The three children were there, though no longer really children, concerned for their mother who stared ahead stoically and remembered.

It had been a day like this when they’d met. A day of high summer that had followed the bitter winter of nineteen-forty-seven. She’d had a puncture. It was in the rear wheel, of course. Punctures always were. She’d noticed Peter riding strongly at the front of the group, sheltering them from the wind as they rode north from Matlock. She was quite capable of mending it, but Peter had offered. He quickly found the thorn, replaced the tube and they were off as a pair to catch the rest of the club at the Parakeet in Bakewell. Again he rode at the front to help her. She held his wheel as they climbed the slope by Haddon and rejoiced in his strength.

They’d tumbled into the café, laughing, flushed, and breathless. Peter had gently led her to a seat and bought her tea. After that, they’d been inseparable. They cycled every weekend, either alone or with the club. They’d gone on a hostelling tour of Scotland and marvelled at the magnificence of mountains, and purple heather. The heather was special. Peter had smiled as he tied a sprig on her handlebars, and they’d kissed. When she grew tired he’d carried her bags and she in her turn had taken pleasure in preparing their meals in the often ill-equipped members’ kitchens. By the time they got home they were engaged and by the following summer, married. She’d worn the sprig of heather on her wedding dress.

The years passed; they raised a family, yet still they rode their tandem until a stroke made Peter the weaker. Now it was her turn to lend him her strength on their ever shorter rides. Ten miles was an effort when once a hundred had been easy. One memorable Sunday they’d managed to get to the Derbyshire moors, and again there was heather. For old times’ sake, Peter had tied a sprig to her handlebars, and they’d kissed. That was the last time. Was it really only two weeks? Now he was lying beneath a sprinkling of soil and they would never ride together again.

She held the dry sprig of heather from all those years before when they’d been young and strong. She kissed the fresh purple sprig from their last journey and gently gave them both back to the love of her life. As the soil covered the coffin, the heather and her love, she turned and walked dry eyed to the gate.

Their tandem was leaning against the wall and, for the first time, Heather rode it home alone.