I love dreams. They put me in mind of stories that need telling. All I need is to find them first. I had an idea of one tonight, thinking back on a dream from Wednesday.
This was my thought:
A boy falls in love with a girl, but his love is unrequited. Some conflict arises and fate throws them together. They go on a long, arduous journey and they come to be friends over the course of it. When they achieve the goal of the journey, they come home. It is wintertime.
Now, my main idea was for the end of the story, because that is what my dream centered around. There are two possible endings. One: the girl is married to the love that she left behind at the beginning, and the boy goes home and cries. Two: the boy and the girl get married, but to his unhappiness because he knows that she does not love him. In this version, her love was killed in the beginning which is why she marries the boy.
I know this is ridiculously simple and completely un-brainstormed, but it felt important to me. I just wanted to throw out an idea for a story of a journey including a boy and a girl in which the ending isn't happy. I am kind of in love with the idea of it.
The last scene:
– after their wedding they are driven home (carriage, of course) –
In the late afternoon light of a winter’s day, he approached the bed. It was crisped over and white, starched and pure in preparation for their first night together. He thought back to all the nights before, sitting at the fire with her, his love, and he began to cry. At the bedside, he fell to his knees and his mouth opened wordlessly in a silent scream. Steps in the corridor went unheard by him. His bride walked through the thresh-hold and saw his form, limp against the blankets, the mattress, the wooden frame. She went to him and laid a hand on his shoulder.
“It will be alright, boy.”
“I know,” he said.
But still, the tears ran on.
Maybe a short story? (Then I could call them "boy" and "girl" which I also like - I don't think I could get away with that in a longer piece.) On the other hand, I kind of like the idea of a book where you invest so much time and emotion into these characters; you desperately want them to fall in love and be happily together, and they just aren't. Because that is life. Am I insane, or is this a good idea?
Saturday, February 6, 2010
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
The Coming of Spring
I realized my problem with the story!!! The reason why everything has been too like a summary is because I haven't been zooming in enough! (Of course, Ms. Pugs told me this months ago, but I only just get it now.) I have proof. I was writing last Saturday and I noted that yet again I was giving an overview. I wanted to try and make time stop for just a little, have an hour actually take more than a few sentences. So I took what happened in the first paragraph and wrote it again, but in more detail. Take a look, if you'd like.
Zoomed OUT:
When Spring came to them in their happiness, realization dawning upon their friendship, the first thing she noticed was how big he was. Another day had come and she had woken with all the excitement that had lifted her lids for the past winter and autumn. There was something, no, someone, in the world that needed her to come out into the day. She rushed to oblige, for the other part of this small bargain that she had acknowledged was that she needed that someone in turn. Despite her impatience, it took some time for her to choose a frock of the few that she had, and even to set her hair to rights, going to the trouble of braiding it into an intricate weave. These things were unconscious, of course. In her heart she told herself that there was no particular reason for her care. When washed and dressed, Daphne hurried to pack a small basket of food stuffs, indeed the best that her limited pantry had to offer – a picnic by the lake was in order, a popular enough spot for Pilar to allow them to go on together unchaperoned. Went she did, before the sun was full in the sky, and to both her expectation and surprise, Crowe was waiting already for her at the head of the path.
Zoomed IN:
The birds called from the morning nest, harkening the day that was beginning in the far east. Along the rims of the cupped world, there was a faint glow approaching swiftly, yet also so slowly, the leaf on the flowing river, a mote of pollen caught in the wind. Cool emanated from the thin walls of the low-built house, fingers of air reaching steadily through the cracks in closed shutters. Daphne curled away from the icy grip in sleep, pulling closer the bundled mantle that was already wrapped tightly around her. The hand was insistent though. It tapped gently at her bare forehead, wound through the blanket around her feet to chill her toes, firmly placed the back of a hand against the nape of her neck. Daphne started awake. Ah! the cold. Slowly, one eye dared flutter open, the lid swiftly snapping back down. More slowly again, the process was repeated. A third time, and both came open and stayed thus.
Daphne, still curled tightly in a ball, listened to the outside world awakening with her, her eyes resting on the wooden frame of the window. She imagined what it would be like to be wealthy, to have glass windows to keep the cold out, a fire to make the house warm. A dream, she thought. Unless the Prince grows a heart. She laughed softly to herself. Yes, that will happen as soon as the leaves in the forest turned to gold. Crowe is wealthy, she mused, his dark face swimming into the pool of her thoughts. A moment later, she caught up with herself. A gasp. Hush, silly, she told herself. What a thing to think of! Fool!
The order of her thoughts pushed her to bolt upright and jump from the frigid bed into the even cooler air. A spasm overtook her and this time she exclaimed out loud. Ah! What day was it? What was there to be done? She remembered – nothing, for today she was meant to go to the lake with Crowe for a picnic. Without Pilar. Daphne did not want to think of why this felt significant. She pulled opened the chest and pulled out the first frock that her hands found as was her custom. When her eyes met it however, they recoiled. In truth, there was nothing terribly the matter with the simple dress, yet she found herself wishing for something a little more flattering. It is not for anybody in particular, just myself and this lovely spring day. She rummaged a moment or two more, disappointment springing up in the shape of her three other dresses, each more simple and rugged than the last. Finally, at the bottom of the chest, she found a fifth shift of fine linen in blue, a color to match the sky, the lake. It was the best dress that she had, and still she felt a little too plain when she pulled it on. For the first time, she wished that she could afford even a small pocket mirror, for there was no way to see herself and how she looked in this gardener’s house.
In truth, Daphne did not really know what she looked like. Only faint reflections in a distorted stream or impressions in a glossy piece of ceramic had rendered her for herself in shades of grey. This thought struck her with inspiration, and she rushed quietly to the kitchen for the knife. The earthen floor was damp beneath her, and she thought a little on buying wooden slats to place for a floor when the loggers came to town. In the kitchen as in her bedroom, the cold had crept in throughout the night, and she pulled the fabric of her dress closer. In a drawer she found what she sought. With a cloth she cleaned the blade, and holding it up in the light, attempted to perceive a reflection. Disappointment came again – it was too rusted and spotted with use to serve. Defeated, she returned to her room to comb her hair. She thought to braid it as she always did, and as was proper, but a second thought made her leave it down, flowing more than halfway down her back. Not all would approve, but when had she ever cared for their opinions. Back to the kitchen with a basket she went, to pack food for the day. The pantry provided the remains of a jar of honey, the last of the summer’s yield, and some cured meat, purchased a few days prior at market. From the cooling oven she pulled a warm loaf of bread, made that very morning by her mother, bless her good and gentle heart. Set on a linen kerchief and tenderly wrapped, the food was soon ready, and Daphne with it.
By now, the sun had full risen and lit the morning gaily with arms of light. From outdoors and in Daphne heard little. Doubtless, Pilar had already risen and was off to see to the Prince’s garden. Daphne smiled grimly, wishing her mother well. The time was coming for her appointment now. She padded to the door in bare feet, pausing a moment on the step to dust off her soles. Slipping on her shoes, she pulled up the door latch, which creaked good-humouredly to her as she stepped out into the morning.
It was as if months had passed in a night. The small dirt path outside the house was nearly completely obscured by a fertile lushness that threatened to take over. Dew drops sparkled like diamonds or flakes of snow caught on petals and leaves. Above, the trees had begun to grow flower buds, some of which seemed on the verge of opening. Even higher, the sky was already cleared and turning the purest, deepest shade of azure possible on a sunny day. And as drab and plain as Daphne had felt only minutes earlier, sequestered in the comparative gloom of the old, fading house, she understood now that this day, this life belonged to her as she did to it. As a matter of course, there stood at the head of the path, a dark Crowe, eagerly waiting.
Zoomed OUT:
When Spring came to them in their happiness, realization dawning upon their friendship, the first thing she noticed was how big he was. Another day had come and she had woken with all the excitement that had lifted her lids for the past winter and autumn. There was something, no, someone, in the world that needed her to come out into the day. She rushed to oblige, for the other part of this small bargain that she had acknowledged was that she needed that someone in turn. Despite her impatience, it took some time for her to choose a frock of the few that she had, and even to set her hair to rights, going to the trouble of braiding it into an intricate weave. These things were unconscious, of course. In her heart she told herself that there was no particular reason for her care. When washed and dressed, Daphne hurried to pack a small basket of food stuffs, indeed the best that her limited pantry had to offer – a picnic by the lake was in order, a popular enough spot for Pilar to allow them to go on together unchaperoned. Went she did, before the sun was full in the sky, and to both her expectation and surprise, Crowe was waiting already for her at the head of the path.
Zoomed IN:
The birds called from the morning nest, harkening the day that was beginning in the far east. Along the rims of the cupped world, there was a faint glow approaching swiftly, yet also so slowly, the leaf on the flowing river, a mote of pollen caught in the wind. Cool emanated from the thin walls of the low-built house, fingers of air reaching steadily through the cracks in closed shutters. Daphne curled away from the icy grip in sleep, pulling closer the bundled mantle that was already wrapped tightly around her. The hand was insistent though. It tapped gently at her bare forehead, wound through the blanket around her feet to chill her toes, firmly placed the back of a hand against the nape of her neck. Daphne started awake. Ah! the cold. Slowly, one eye dared flutter open, the lid swiftly snapping back down. More slowly again, the process was repeated. A third time, and both came open and stayed thus.
Daphne, still curled tightly in a ball, listened to the outside world awakening with her, her eyes resting on the wooden frame of the window. She imagined what it would be like to be wealthy, to have glass windows to keep the cold out, a fire to make the house warm. A dream, she thought. Unless the Prince grows a heart. She laughed softly to herself. Yes, that will happen as soon as the leaves in the forest turned to gold. Crowe is wealthy, she mused, his dark face swimming into the pool of her thoughts. A moment later, she caught up with herself. A gasp. Hush, silly, she told herself. What a thing to think of! Fool!
The order of her thoughts pushed her to bolt upright and jump from the frigid bed into the even cooler air. A spasm overtook her and this time she exclaimed out loud. Ah! What day was it? What was there to be done? She remembered – nothing, for today she was meant to go to the lake with Crowe for a picnic. Without Pilar. Daphne did not want to think of why this felt significant. She pulled opened the chest and pulled out the first frock that her hands found as was her custom. When her eyes met it however, they recoiled. In truth, there was nothing terribly the matter with the simple dress, yet she found herself wishing for something a little more flattering. It is not for anybody in particular, just myself and this lovely spring day. She rummaged a moment or two more, disappointment springing up in the shape of her three other dresses, each more simple and rugged than the last. Finally, at the bottom of the chest, she found a fifth shift of fine linen in blue, a color to match the sky, the lake. It was the best dress that she had, and still she felt a little too plain when she pulled it on. For the first time, she wished that she could afford even a small pocket mirror, for there was no way to see herself and how she looked in this gardener’s house.
In truth, Daphne did not really know what she looked like. Only faint reflections in a distorted stream or impressions in a glossy piece of ceramic had rendered her for herself in shades of grey. This thought struck her with inspiration, and she rushed quietly to the kitchen for the knife. The earthen floor was damp beneath her, and she thought a little on buying wooden slats to place for a floor when the loggers came to town. In the kitchen as in her bedroom, the cold had crept in throughout the night, and she pulled the fabric of her dress closer. In a drawer she found what she sought. With a cloth she cleaned the blade, and holding it up in the light, attempted to perceive a reflection. Disappointment came again – it was too rusted and spotted with use to serve. Defeated, she returned to her room to comb her hair. She thought to braid it as she always did, and as was proper, but a second thought made her leave it down, flowing more than halfway down her back. Not all would approve, but when had she ever cared for their opinions. Back to the kitchen with a basket she went, to pack food for the day. The pantry provided the remains of a jar of honey, the last of the summer’s yield, and some cured meat, purchased a few days prior at market. From the cooling oven she pulled a warm loaf of bread, made that very morning by her mother, bless her good and gentle heart. Set on a linen kerchief and tenderly wrapped, the food was soon ready, and Daphne with it.
By now, the sun had full risen and lit the morning gaily with arms of light. From outdoors and in Daphne heard little. Doubtless, Pilar had already risen and was off to see to the Prince’s garden. Daphne smiled grimly, wishing her mother well. The time was coming for her appointment now. She padded to the door in bare feet, pausing a moment on the step to dust off her soles. Slipping on her shoes, she pulled up the door latch, which creaked good-humouredly to her as she stepped out into the morning.
It was as if months had passed in a night. The small dirt path outside the house was nearly completely obscured by a fertile lushness that threatened to take over. Dew drops sparkled like diamonds or flakes of snow caught on petals and leaves. Above, the trees had begun to grow flower buds, some of which seemed on the verge of opening. Even higher, the sky was already cleared and turning the purest, deepest shade of azure possible on a sunny day. And as drab and plain as Daphne had felt only minutes earlier, sequestered in the comparative gloom of the old, fading house, she understood now that this day, this life belonged to her as she did to it. As a matter of course, there stood at the head of the path, a dark Crowe, eagerly waiting.
Sunday, January 3, 2010
Winters Past
It is so strange to look at what I am writing now, and to look at what I did before. I confess that in my heart, there is no patience for the old, forgotten things. Nonetheless, I thought you might like to see. From winters, springs, summers, and falls past:
Seven Apple Pies
I can recall the day of my wedding as clearly as the pies that lay on the dinner table that evening. The seven pies all in a row, waiting for the feast to begin. The smell of the apples, the slight tang of baking cinnamon wafting in the air. The pies that she made. My wife, Jaclyn. I remember how she strolled down the aisle towards me with that love and sensitivity that forever followed in her wake, like the strong perfume that she wore to the socials that she so loved. I could see in her eyes how much that day meant to her, how much she wanted what we were to pledge. With every step she took, she gave herself up, gave me her life, gave me the world. I had never known what it was to live before I met her.
Mine was a life lived under the rule of others. My choices were ever influenced by my father’s will, and when he died, the needs of my mother. When I met Jaclyn, my life changed forever. Before I met her, life was dull and boring. I was a young man living the life of an old one. I had dedicated myself to being a doctor, and a renowned one at that. The city of New York celebrated my successes and mourned my woes. Still, my life was a monotony of work. With my celebrity, it surprised no one but myself when I attracted the attention of a wealthy socialite by the name of Jaclyn Swift. She sought me out at one of the dinner parties that my mother brought me to and charmed me with her vivaciousness. After that, life went from gray to vivid in a hurry.
Jaclyn was so different from me in so many ways. She would never plan anything, but would follow the slightest whim in a moment. It was one of her whims that later found me the owner of one of the biggest apple orchards in the state of New York. She wasn’t one of those people who dreamed. She didn’t have to. She was as a bird in flight or a cheetah in motion. Her restlessness was captivating. I was in love. My love had blossomed with the same spontaneity that made up her very being. We loved with the intensity of the ancient pair Cupid and Psyche. Our love seemed just as profound, just as amazing. We made the word true in the sincerest fashion. But, sometimes, I found myself wondering why, why had she chosen me? There were so many men in the world that would suit her better, who would have the same pursuits as she. Each time I asked her, she gave me the strangest answers and occasionally replied with an insipid “because you balance me, you are all that I am not”. I never truly believed her answers ‘til one night, a few days before we were to be married.
We were snuggled together in the sitting room; she in my lap reading voraciously as I held her, smoothing back her hair every few moments, clutching her as you would a small child. I always thought she was so sweet when she read. It was like when an alligator let birds sit on it’s maw with impunity. She was so lively in an almost intimidating way, yet every day she would make a little time to sit down and read a book quietly and sweetly. Slowly I leaned down and whispered the question that had been bothering me since the day I proposed to her. “Why do you love me?” I whispered quietly.
“I’ve told you many times,” she said, planting a tender kiss on my cheek and turning back to her book.
“Those were jokes, not real explanations. Please, tell me.”
I had her attention now. She turned to me frowning, a look of consternation in her eyes. “But, darling, I meant every word!”
I looked at her incredulously. “But, I thought… Well, they sounded so cliché.”
At my words her face softened a little. She held my face in her hands and murmured, “My darling, whenever I read those stories of love, of everlasting love, I think of us. My explanations sound so cliché because they are. People through the ages have experienced this love and here we are experiencing it now. Did you think it would be new, different, revolutionary? It is in its way, but it also isn’t. Trust in me when I say I have my reasons, because I do and they are good ones."
She held me a little longer after that, and I was comforted by her warm embrace. She began reading again and we went back to the way we were before, she in my arms, I stroking her hair, sitting quietly together, at peace.
But those times have long since gone and Jaclyn is now dead. I am now an old man, my life lived in full. But still I remember those pies, their smell, their taste. They haunt me like the ghost of my dead wife. I live in her orchard, that orchard of apples, the fruit that she loved most. I take care of these small fruits though I often find myself afraid to pick them. It would be like revisiting those painful memories all over again. It would be like seeing her again, lying in bed, sick and confused, asking for one last apple, one last pie. Like hearing my own voice heavy with sadness, telling her that we weren't at the orchard, that she would never see the orchard again. I know now, after all these years, that I should have gone. I should have run back for her and picked hundreds of apples, all that she could want. There would have been time. But I was greedy, I wanted to be there to hold her hand, to love her, to comfort her in her time of need. Perhaps I thought that my love, my need, would make her stay, that she would open her eyes renewed and happy. But of course that didn’t happen. She died eight hours later.
I will not say that I was heartbroken nor that a part of me had died with her. I do not believe in such things. I will only say that, as in my youth, I felt old. She had always made me feel like a young man, love-struck for the first time. It was as if there was nothing that could stop us if we were together. But we weren’t together anymore. Several evenings after her funeral, I packed up and left the orchard, for what I thought would be the last time. I went to live with my daughter in New York, the place of my birth, in the hope of finding comfort and advice. She took me in and let me stay. I was with her for almost a year. No one really minded, the kids even loved having me to stay for a while. I was the exciting Granddad, the one they boasted to their friends about, the one who always did something thrilling. But after a couple of weeks I knew that even they could see the difference in me. It was during my eleventh month in New York that things changed.
I was walking down the street towards my daughter’s apartment, when I smelled something. There was the same tang, the spice, and I could remember those pies as they lay, once again, on the white tablecloth of my memory. I opened my eyes slowly to see a sign advertising homemade apple pies. Quickly I closed my eyes again, turned towards the apartment, and blundered the ten remaining yards left to my daughter’s front door. I didn’t care if I bumped into people, I didn’t hear their yelps and insults. I just kept walking. I fumbled for the keys, opening the door as quickly as possible, slamming it once I was in. Standing on the other side of the door, breathing hard, I could still see all seven of those pies and I knew that they would drive me mad. I was running from them and from her, trying to find the place that would let me forget, that would help me to go on. I realized that New York wasn’t the right one and that truly, there was no such place. Wherever I went, she would find me and make me remember.
So once again I found myself packing. I returned eight days later to the orchard where I immediately started to garden. I woke up at the break of dawn and spent my days picking, plucking, and weeding ‘til late at night, when the last light went out of the sky. I sometimes thought I saw her, laughing at me with my soiled clothing and my filthy hands. I would smile to her and shake my head. You don’t understand, I would think to her, This is for you. She would smile shyly, as if she had heard me, and begin to gaze around at the beauty of the orchard, I with her. When I looked back to the place where she had been, she was gone. I finally finished twelve days later and went to the small rise where the house is perched, to survey my work. I looked on with satisfaction. It was good work, I decided. In the end I was finally at peace. To me, here alone in this beautiful place, that was all that mattered. I had the strangest thought as I looked down over the bright green leaves of spring. She was proud of both of us.
The Spring of My Life
Through the years, I have realized that my life and my place in it can be defined by seasons; spring, summer, fall and winter. As magnificent as I find all four of them, the latter three could never claim but an inch of my heart for, in truth, I have always been enchanted by spring. This was because of a young Akita pup named Dorothy.
Dorothy was a gift from my father to my oldest sister, Laura, for her sixteenth birthday. Laura was not what one would call a spirited girl. She was more cultured in sewing and cooking than in the numerous tales of Robinson Crusoe. She found more excitement in hearing about the latest styles in women’s fashions than in exploring the forest behind our house. So, it came as a disappointment to all but myself that Dorothy was found to be prey to a more adventurous disposition. Later, after Laura tired of her, Dorothy and I went on romps together in the cornfields next to the old willow and sloshed about in the forest’s warbling stream. She was my confidant, my best friend, and although she was only a dog, I loved her as I have loved my daughters since. I found comfort in her warmth, sweetness in her puppy-like smell, and delight in the callous pads of her friendly paws. I treasured my moments with her, because that was all they were: moments. Every passing day, I dreaded the eventual farewell that was sure to come and she, the wiser of us, would simply comfort me, because she and I both knew that our time together would be short.
Dorothy and I spent a particularly happy time together on one of the increasingly brilliant afternoons of May. Together, she and I went on a far excursion to the shaded playground of our town’s only school. In the shelter of the three flowering dogwoods that lined the old flagstone wall, we slipped together down the worn metal of the old slide and twisted about on the warped leather of the ramshackle swings. This was perhaps one of the most joyous days that we spent in each other’s company, for very soon she would go from my life without the slightest trace, leaving nothing behind but my wounded heart.
When finally we parted, it was still a grievous shock. In her own way, she did warn me. All through that night, she sat alert beside me, looking out of my window and into the bitter gloom of nighttime. She would turn slightly to look at me, but never relaxed her vigil. I endeavored to stay awake, but found it impossible.
Early the next morning, I was shaken awake to a dawn-streaked sky and to my mother’s tear-stained eyes. “Dorothy is gone,” she sighed. I never did find out where she went or by what means. She was gone and that was all I needed to know. Wherever she journeyed, I knew that she would be content, and I knew that she would somehow return to me. Still I believe this, because I know that after winter, there will always be spring.
Time passed and gradually, I have grown older, as we all do. For me, summer was defined by the joy and adrenaline of young adulthood, love, and freedom--- away from my severe father, from the memories of happiness long gone, and most importantly, away from the remembrance of my mother who died the year after I turned twelve.
Autumn, my middle age, was a time for learning and being learned, a time for being left behind as my children grew away from me, a time for watching my husband and myself grow old together.
So far, my advancing years have been as kind to me as any, filling my life with a brisk wintertime of warm, early morning teas, afternoon naps, and monthly visits to the doctor’s office. My daughters have been attentive to me, their visits often and not far between.
Even though it was so long ago, I still remember my dear Dorothy and the happy times we had together. I am always in search of the sparkle of her eyes or that unique way that she expressed excitement over my presence. I have found, though, that when one seeks in earnest, one often overlooks that which should be noticed. Last month, I visited the pound and my eyes found nothing of worth. Yet, just last week, I recognized that familiar glimmer in the eyes of a young Beagle. It’s funny how those who are special to you have the ability to illuminate gloom and darkness, or, in this case, a kennel. None of the volunteers could say exactly how old she was or where she came from. However, all agreed on naming that day as her birthday. The 21st of March has more significance to me than being the day that I chanced upon her. It is also the first day of spring. On our way home, in the luster of that radiant afternoon, I decided on a name; I would call her Thea.
Seven Apple Pies
I can recall the day of my wedding as clearly as the pies that lay on the dinner table that evening. The seven pies all in a row, waiting for the feast to begin. The smell of the apples, the slight tang of baking cinnamon wafting in the air. The pies that she made. My wife, Jaclyn. I remember how she strolled down the aisle towards me with that love and sensitivity that forever followed in her wake, like the strong perfume that she wore to the socials that she so loved. I could see in her eyes how much that day meant to her, how much she wanted what we were to pledge. With every step she took, she gave herself up, gave me her life, gave me the world. I had never known what it was to live before I met her.
Mine was a life lived under the rule of others. My choices were ever influenced by my father’s will, and when he died, the needs of my mother. When I met Jaclyn, my life changed forever. Before I met her, life was dull and boring. I was a young man living the life of an old one. I had dedicated myself to being a doctor, and a renowned one at that. The city of New York celebrated my successes and mourned my woes. Still, my life was a monotony of work. With my celebrity, it surprised no one but myself when I attracted the attention of a wealthy socialite by the name of Jaclyn Swift. She sought me out at one of the dinner parties that my mother brought me to and charmed me with her vivaciousness. After that, life went from gray to vivid in a hurry.
Jaclyn was so different from me in so many ways. She would never plan anything, but would follow the slightest whim in a moment. It was one of her whims that later found me the owner of one of the biggest apple orchards in the state of New York. She wasn’t one of those people who dreamed. She didn’t have to. She was as a bird in flight or a cheetah in motion. Her restlessness was captivating. I was in love. My love had blossomed with the same spontaneity that made up her very being. We loved with the intensity of the ancient pair Cupid and Psyche. Our love seemed just as profound, just as amazing. We made the word true in the sincerest fashion. But, sometimes, I found myself wondering why, why had she chosen me? There were so many men in the world that would suit her better, who would have the same pursuits as she. Each time I asked her, she gave me the strangest answers and occasionally replied with an insipid “because you balance me, you are all that I am not”. I never truly believed her answers ‘til one night, a few days before we were to be married.
We were snuggled together in the sitting room; she in my lap reading voraciously as I held her, smoothing back her hair every few moments, clutching her as you would a small child. I always thought she was so sweet when she read. It was like when an alligator let birds sit on it’s maw with impunity. She was so lively in an almost intimidating way, yet every day she would make a little time to sit down and read a book quietly and sweetly. Slowly I leaned down and whispered the question that had been bothering me since the day I proposed to her. “Why do you love me?” I whispered quietly.
“I’ve told you many times,” she said, planting a tender kiss on my cheek and turning back to her book.
“Those were jokes, not real explanations. Please, tell me.”
I had her attention now. She turned to me frowning, a look of consternation in her eyes. “But, darling, I meant every word!”
I looked at her incredulously. “But, I thought… Well, they sounded so cliché.”
At my words her face softened a little. She held my face in her hands and murmured, “My darling, whenever I read those stories of love, of everlasting love, I think of us. My explanations sound so cliché because they are. People through the ages have experienced this love and here we are experiencing it now. Did you think it would be new, different, revolutionary? It is in its way, but it also isn’t. Trust in me when I say I have my reasons, because I do and they are good ones."
She held me a little longer after that, and I was comforted by her warm embrace. She began reading again and we went back to the way we were before, she in my arms, I stroking her hair, sitting quietly together, at peace.
But those times have long since gone and Jaclyn is now dead. I am now an old man, my life lived in full. But still I remember those pies, their smell, their taste. They haunt me like the ghost of my dead wife. I live in her orchard, that orchard of apples, the fruit that she loved most. I take care of these small fruits though I often find myself afraid to pick them. It would be like revisiting those painful memories all over again. It would be like seeing her again, lying in bed, sick and confused, asking for one last apple, one last pie. Like hearing my own voice heavy with sadness, telling her that we weren't at the orchard, that she would never see the orchard again. I know now, after all these years, that I should have gone. I should have run back for her and picked hundreds of apples, all that she could want. There would have been time. But I was greedy, I wanted to be there to hold her hand, to love her, to comfort her in her time of need. Perhaps I thought that my love, my need, would make her stay, that she would open her eyes renewed and happy. But of course that didn’t happen. She died eight hours later.
I will not say that I was heartbroken nor that a part of me had died with her. I do not believe in such things. I will only say that, as in my youth, I felt old. She had always made me feel like a young man, love-struck for the first time. It was as if there was nothing that could stop us if we were together. But we weren’t together anymore. Several evenings after her funeral, I packed up and left the orchard, for what I thought would be the last time. I went to live with my daughter in New York, the place of my birth, in the hope of finding comfort and advice. She took me in and let me stay. I was with her for almost a year. No one really minded, the kids even loved having me to stay for a while. I was the exciting Granddad, the one they boasted to their friends about, the one who always did something thrilling. But after a couple of weeks I knew that even they could see the difference in me. It was during my eleventh month in New York that things changed.
I was walking down the street towards my daughter’s apartment, when I smelled something. There was the same tang, the spice, and I could remember those pies as they lay, once again, on the white tablecloth of my memory. I opened my eyes slowly to see a sign advertising homemade apple pies. Quickly I closed my eyes again, turned towards the apartment, and blundered the ten remaining yards left to my daughter’s front door. I didn’t care if I bumped into people, I didn’t hear their yelps and insults. I just kept walking. I fumbled for the keys, opening the door as quickly as possible, slamming it once I was in. Standing on the other side of the door, breathing hard, I could still see all seven of those pies and I knew that they would drive me mad. I was running from them and from her, trying to find the place that would let me forget, that would help me to go on. I realized that New York wasn’t the right one and that truly, there was no such place. Wherever I went, she would find me and make me remember.
So once again I found myself packing. I returned eight days later to the orchard where I immediately started to garden. I woke up at the break of dawn and spent my days picking, plucking, and weeding ‘til late at night, when the last light went out of the sky. I sometimes thought I saw her, laughing at me with my soiled clothing and my filthy hands. I would smile to her and shake my head. You don’t understand, I would think to her, This is for you. She would smile shyly, as if she had heard me, and begin to gaze around at the beauty of the orchard, I with her. When I looked back to the place where she had been, she was gone. I finally finished twelve days later and went to the small rise where the house is perched, to survey my work. I looked on with satisfaction. It was good work, I decided. In the end I was finally at peace. To me, here alone in this beautiful place, that was all that mattered. I had the strangest thought as I looked down over the bright green leaves of spring. She was proud of both of us.
The Spring of My Life
Through the years, I have realized that my life and my place in it can be defined by seasons; spring, summer, fall and winter. As magnificent as I find all four of them, the latter three could never claim but an inch of my heart for, in truth, I have always been enchanted by spring. This was because of a young Akita pup named Dorothy.
Dorothy was a gift from my father to my oldest sister, Laura, for her sixteenth birthday. Laura was not what one would call a spirited girl. She was more cultured in sewing and cooking than in the numerous tales of Robinson Crusoe. She found more excitement in hearing about the latest styles in women’s fashions than in exploring the forest behind our house. So, it came as a disappointment to all but myself that Dorothy was found to be prey to a more adventurous disposition. Later, after Laura tired of her, Dorothy and I went on romps together in the cornfields next to the old willow and sloshed about in the forest’s warbling stream. She was my confidant, my best friend, and although she was only a dog, I loved her as I have loved my daughters since. I found comfort in her warmth, sweetness in her puppy-like smell, and delight in the callous pads of her friendly paws. I treasured my moments with her, because that was all they were: moments. Every passing day, I dreaded the eventual farewell that was sure to come and she, the wiser of us, would simply comfort me, because she and I both knew that our time together would be short.
Dorothy and I spent a particularly happy time together on one of the increasingly brilliant afternoons of May. Together, she and I went on a far excursion to the shaded playground of our town’s only school. In the shelter of the three flowering dogwoods that lined the old flagstone wall, we slipped together down the worn metal of the old slide and twisted about on the warped leather of the ramshackle swings. This was perhaps one of the most joyous days that we spent in each other’s company, for very soon she would go from my life without the slightest trace, leaving nothing behind but my wounded heart.
When finally we parted, it was still a grievous shock. In her own way, she did warn me. All through that night, she sat alert beside me, looking out of my window and into the bitter gloom of nighttime. She would turn slightly to look at me, but never relaxed her vigil. I endeavored to stay awake, but found it impossible.
Early the next morning, I was shaken awake to a dawn-streaked sky and to my mother’s tear-stained eyes. “Dorothy is gone,” she sighed. I never did find out where she went or by what means. She was gone and that was all I needed to know. Wherever she journeyed, I knew that she would be content, and I knew that she would somehow return to me. Still I believe this, because I know that after winter, there will always be spring.
Time passed and gradually, I have grown older, as we all do. For me, summer was defined by the joy and adrenaline of young adulthood, love, and freedom--- away from my severe father, from the memories of happiness long gone, and most importantly, away from the remembrance of my mother who died the year after I turned twelve.
Autumn, my middle age, was a time for learning and being learned, a time for being left behind as my children grew away from me, a time for watching my husband and myself grow old together.
So far, my advancing years have been as kind to me as any, filling my life with a brisk wintertime of warm, early morning teas, afternoon naps, and monthly visits to the doctor’s office. My daughters have been attentive to me, their visits often and not far between.
Even though it was so long ago, I still remember my dear Dorothy and the happy times we had together. I am always in search of the sparkle of her eyes or that unique way that she expressed excitement over my presence. I have found, though, that when one seeks in earnest, one often overlooks that which should be noticed. Last month, I visited the pound and my eyes found nothing of worth. Yet, just last week, I recognized that familiar glimmer in the eyes of a young Beagle. It’s funny how those who are special to you have the ability to illuminate gloom and darkness, or, in this case, a kennel. None of the volunteers could say exactly how old she was or where she came from. However, all agreed on naming that day as her birthday. The 21st of March has more significance to me than being the day that I chanced upon her. It is also the first day of spring. On our way home, in the luster of that radiant afternoon, I decided on a name; I would call her Thea.
An Ending
The girl clambered up the muddy, hard slope to the highway. Her clothes were those of a man, though it hardly mattered either way, they were so covered in pitch from her labors. Her hands to here blackened and stained, as if burned by handling coals. Up she had come on her stomach, groveling into the cutting black stones, not minding the trail of scent and blood that she left in the dirt. Some wolf might find it and piss on it – what did it matter? Those who might search for her were too dainty to dirty themselves for the sake for finding her. She could not imagine that the search meant so much to them at all in any case. On she crept, perhaps not so quietly as she might hope, sending small rocks clattering down into the jutting ravine below. Above there was the sky, unclouded and speckled with a thousand hungry eyes to watch her with. To her left there were the trees, which could shelter and feed, had she not already said goodbyes to her friends amongst the green men. They were not for her anymore.
She did not herself truly know the plan. When she had run, leaving behind her father’s body and Crowe, encircled by villagers, there hadn’t been any thought to pass through her mind. Wretchedness, of course, was present, alongside a desire to move and to keep moving, until nothing looked familiar or beloved, and the world remained a stranger forever. She had gone to her mother’s house and found Crowe’s things in the spare room. She had wept over them a little – they were the scraps of a life that had collapsed about her. The itching came into her limbs again before long, and she leapt up, tears still streaking her eyes, pulling down her face, a watercolor fading in the rain. She looked to the door then, to the empty clothes on the bed. A step she took, away from the past, but her heart was not strong enough to bear it. Quickly shedding her own things, she pulled on Crowe’s shirt and trousers, shrugging into the vest and spare coat, tightening the cravat at her neck. It did not occur to her that the guise of a man would be safer in the places to which she ran, her only idea to bring a small part of Crowe with her. Into the pockets of her new wardrobe did she pour her mother’s short store of coppers, as well as seeds of a future, small plants useful to healing and arduous journeys. They would not be needed any longer to the one to which they had belonged. A few moments more saw her gone for ever from her mother’s house and the home of her youth.
It was a cruel, fearful day of watching the shadows lengthen, and twitching away from movement and sound. She took the winding path through the forest, not walking on it, but rather beside it, fleeing from she knew not what. Each tree she passed received a farewell caress, for each in itself was a memory of her wandering days as a child through her small, bright world. Now the night had come, and her passage became more rushed and wary, like that of an animal running from the whipping hand. Through streams she passed, tripping and falling into the frigid water, coming up sopping, yet feverish still to go on. Stones and roots caught at her feet, bruising toes and cutting at her soles. By the middle of the night, however, she had reached the highway.
On the edge of the road she now perched, hidden behind the lip of midnight stones that were sent flying every time a coach passed in the dark. The highway was silent though, and no living thing stirred it other than Daphne and the creeping things of the dark that lay beneath the stones and mud. If one had stood in the center of the road, looking about for a sign of life in a lifeless world, they might have just seen the gleaming whites of her eyes around the green center, two moons caught earthside in the glare of darkness. As it was, Crowe was not looking for anything as he stumbled from the woods. He looked not quite so badly as Daphne, having not yet drawn himself through the filth and excretion of the earth that he now rued. Why had he been given life? He remembered that he once had been so happy to breathe, to eat, to walk and run. The joy of those things had been stolen away by his father and his own greed. Lost to him was a wife, a future, mayhap a child, or rather the dream of all these things. His heart’s heart thanked the skies though that he had not continued on that path.
Crowe was yet oblivious to Daphne, perched as she was mostly out of sight. Her eyes darted over his features, shining against the dark of her blackened face. Had they stood side by side in that moment, they would have looked the brother and sister that they were, the dust and silence coating her in a skin as dark as Crowe’s had ever been. Two more shadows they were, in the shadow of the world, for all had fallen to darkness with them. It would all also wake up again in the morning as it had for years before and would for years into the future. The small tragedy that had befallen them would not crush or shake any besides themselves and perhaps a few in the small country village that they had just left behind. It was this that bound them, beyond even their mutual love and hatred. Love for all that they shared, for sunlit evenings, and strawberries eaten from a lover’s hand. Hate for accusation, for a shared father, for Pilar’s death, for the love itself.
All of these emotions, unthought, yet still felt, drew Daphne into the moonlight, to stand with Crowe a last time. She clambered painfully up from her spot on the side of the dune of coal. Her muscles yanked at her, causing spasms throughout arms and legs, protesting use after so long a labor and so cramped a rest. When finally she stood before him though, her spine was straight and proud, her chin lifted to the stars, her eyes resting on the comfort of his. He did not cry out at the sight of her. He did not shy away or gather her into his arms. Perfectly still was his countenance, as if he had expected her, which he had not. His mind screamed and shouted at him to begone from her, to leave her in the dust before his heart could be broken further. That same heart is not always so wise. Silently he held out a hand, which she slowly clasped in two of her own. Together they turned to face forward, the long road stretching away before their feet to the moon itself. A nonexistent wind clutched at Daphne’s hair, pulled at Crowe’s longcoat. Go, it told them, and wished them luck. For them it lifted feet, gathered strength, pulled them forward. The road would separate them later, in the face of the same wind. Arguments would still be had, that would carve them from each other’s hearts as a scar from a face, painfully, but completely. Still, they had this moment together, hand in hand, on a road bathed in the sun of the night. The wind stayed behind a moment, watching as they disappeared on the path to the moon.
She did not herself truly know the plan. When she had run, leaving behind her father’s body and Crowe, encircled by villagers, there hadn’t been any thought to pass through her mind. Wretchedness, of course, was present, alongside a desire to move and to keep moving, until nothing looked familiar or beloved, and the world remained a stranger forever. She had gone to her mother’s house and found Crowe’s things in the spare room. She had wept over them a little – they were the scraps of a life that had collapsed about her. The itching came into her limbs again before long, and she leapt up, tears still streaking her eyes, pulling down her face, a watercolor fading in the rain. She looked to the door then, to the empty clothes on the bed. A step she took, away from the past, but her heart was not strong enough to bear it. Quickly shedding her own things, she pulled on Crowe’s shirt and trousers, shrugging into the vest and spare coat, tightening the cravat at her neck. It did not occur to her that the guise of a man would be safer in the places to which she ran, her only idea to bring a small part of Crowe with her. Into the pockets of her new wardrobe did she pour her mother’s short store of coppers, as well as seeds of a future, small plants useful to healing and arduous journeys. They would not be needed any longer to the one to which they had belonged. A few moments more saw her gone for ever from her mother’s house and the home of her youth.
It was a cruel, fearful day of watching the shadows lengthen, and twitching away from movement and sound. She took the winding path through the forest, not walking on it, but rather beside it, fleeing from she knew not what. Each tree she passed received a farewell caress, for each in itself was a memory of her wandering days as a child through her small, bright world. Now the night had come, and her passage became more rushed and wary, like that of an animal running from the whipping hand. Through streams she passed, tripping and falling into the frigid water, coming up sopping, yet feverish still to go on. Stones and roots caught at her feet, bruising toes and cutting at her soles. By the middle of the night, however, she had reached the highway.
On the edge of the road she now perched, hidden behind the lip of midnight stones that were sent flying every time a coach passed in the dark. The highway was silent though, and no living thing stirred it other than Daphne and the creeping things of the dark that lay beneath the stones and mud. If one had stood in the center of the road, looking about for a sign of life in a lifeless world, they might have just seen the gleaming whites of her eyes around the green center, two moons caught earthside in the glare of darkness. As it was, Crowe was not looking for anything as he stumbled from the woods. He looked not quite so badly as Daphne, having not yet drawn himself through the filth and excretion of the earth that he now rued. Why had he been given life? He remembered that he once had been so happy to breathe, to eat, to walk and run. The joy of those things had been stolen away by his father and his own greed. Lost to him was a wife, a future, mayhap a child, or rather the dream of all these things. His heart’s heart thanked the skies though that he had not continued on that path.
Crowe was yet oblivious to Daphne, perched as she was mostly out of sight. Her eyes darted over his features, shining against the dark of her blackened face. Had they stood side by side in that moment, they would have looked the brother and sister that they were, the dust and silence coating her in a skin as dark as Crowe’s had ever been. Two more shadows they were, in the shadow of the world, for all had fallen to darkness with them. It would all also wake up again in the morning as it had for years before and would for years into the future. The small tragedy that had befallen them would not crush or shake any besides themselves and perhaps a few in the small country village that they had just left behind. It was this that bound them, beyond even their mutual love and hatred. Love for all that they shared, for sunlit evenings, and strawberries eaten from a lover’s hand. Hate for accusation, for a shared father, for Pilar’s death, for the love itself.
All of these emotions, unthought, yet still felt, drew Daphne into the moonlight, to stand with Crowe a last time. She clambered painfully up from her spot on the side of the dune of coal. Her muscles yanked at her, causing spasms throughout arms and legs, protesting use after so long a labor and so cramped a rest. When finally she stood before him though, her spine was straight and proud, her chin lifted to the stars, her eyes resting on the comfort of his. He did not cry out at the sight of her. He did not shy away or gather her into his arms. Perfectly still was his countenance, as if he had expected her, which he had not. His mind screamed and shouted at him to begone from her, to leave her in the dust before his heart could be broken further. That same heart is not always so wise. Silently he held out a hand, which she slowly clasped in two of her own. Together they turned to face forward, the long road stretching away before their feet to the moon itself. A nonexistent wind clutched at Daphne’s hair, pulled at Crowe’s longcoat. Go, it told them, and wished them luck. For them it lifted feet, gathered strength, pulled them forward. The road would separate them later, in the face of the same wind. Arguments would still be had, that would carve them from each other’s hearts as a scar from a face, painfully, but completely. Still, they had this moment together, hand in hand, on a road bathed in the sun of the night. The wind stayed behind a moment, watching as they disappeared on the path to the moon.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)