Anna

         There is no sound here any more. At first I thought it was just me, that my hearing had gone. I can hear myself though; it is just the rest of the island that is silent. No birds sing, no waves crash: it is as if time itself has stopped.

         When I first came here this island was full of life. There were four of us then – Anna, James, Mary and myself. We had all recently retired and life was good. Anna's family had owned the island for generations, but up until then we had been too busy working to enjoy the more peaceful things in life. Now we could afford to live on our own island, far away from the demands of the world. No communication to the mainland besides the small radio; a perfect haven from the bustle of city life.

         Four friends, what could have been more perfect? Despite being remote we had all of the civilities of modern life; a generator provided power and we had running water the previous tenants had installed. We had moved all our own furniture into the small but cozy house when we first came by boat, so we had all the comforts of modern living without the disadvantages. No crime, no violence, no interference from others.

         It was idyllic. You could step out of the door of your house into the beauty of the woods or the serenity of the beach. Our island only measured two miles in length but, wandering through the trees, it could seem much larger as there were so many treasures to behold. There was not enough space to get lost, but enough to enjoy the delights of exploring; at our age we did not require much more.

         When the days were mild outside we could follow the stream from our house down to the most eastern point of the island. It was a gentle walk, well worn over the years by the previous occupants. A walk on which to reflect upon the beauty of nature and the company of good friends in your later years. Yet it was here, on this very walk, that tragedy struck our group. Tragedy struck my dear wife Anna.

         You could never have believed Anna was seventy-six. She had the gait and infectious humour of a much younger woman and would always be the one leading our expeditions into the island, as we liked to call them. She was so vital and full of life. When I looked at her I did not see grey hair and wrinkles, but the reflection of the beautiful woman I had married fifty-two years ago.

         We were walking by the stream, just her and I, one September day, when she fell. Maybe the path was slippier than usual, maybe her hold on my arm not quite so firm... but my Anna fell in the stream. The anxiety running through my heart was beyond belief, as I scrambled down the small bank, but at least she was moving still. It took all my strength to get her out of the stream and back the couple of hundred yards to the house. I do not know what I could have done had we been further into the trees.

         Anna survived the fall, although she injured her hip. However, from her falling in the water, she developed pneumonia. By the time we managed to radio the mainland and get a boat to take her to the nearest hospital, the fever had settled in and although she hung tenaciously to life, within a week my Anna, my love, was dead. Our island lifestyle, our solitude so precious to us, had killed her as it had taken me too long to get her to a hospital.

         James and Mary decided to leave. They wanted me to come with them; what kind of life was there for an ageing man all on his own on an island. But how could I leave my Anna? As long as I was on the island she was there with me. I only had to turn suddenly to catch the scent of her perfume on the wind, or feel her presence watching me. So I stayed, for I could not leave her.

         It’s winter now and I cannot hear the callings of the island any more. It is not a peaceful place now, but dark and cold, empty of her light and love. I wonder whether that is as I am finally ready to go home – to her. My Anna, my one true love, now and forever.