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.