You sit on your front porch, a cup of herbal tea in your wrinkled hands. Your eyes are dimming at the edges, so you can't really make out anything clearly, only the outlines. Your dog, Apollo lopes into the porch, whines at you, then lays at your feet. You appreciate the radiating warmth from his body and use your free hand to draw the shawl tighter around your neck. The days are longer and colder now, with no one for company and no noise and laughter to be heard. You wish for the good old days when life was fuller and happier but you know that the past can't be returned to. Everyone has moved on now. Your kids has left your wings and are now paving their path in the world. It doesn't stop you from wishing for the days when they relied and depended on you.
When you were a blooming youth, you always wished to be an independent woman. While your friends pined and lusted over boys who didn't care about them anyway, you filled your mind with words and ideas. You wanted to be the best in everything and you never wanted to fail. And you did exactly just that. You excelled in academics and sports and contests. You wrote mind-blowing essays about feminism and women rights. Your teachers hailed you as the great voice of your generation. And you basked in the adoration and admiration of your teachers and peers alike. When your best friend cried to you about her boyfriend breaking up with her, you secretly wondered if heartbreak was that painful. If it really mattered that the boy had left her. You consoled her and held her in your hands as she shook. And you inwardly shook your head at the foolishness of it all. You just couldn't understand it. Then you graduated Uni.
And you met Pope.
Pope was different in an otherworldly way. He was lanky and carried himself with such grace, you felt clumsy around him. He never smiled, but he never frowned either. He had this mask of indifference about him, like life couldn't bother him. You met him when you were making your library rounds in the town you just moved into. When you saw Pope studying the spine of a book titled Butter Honey Pig Bread, his hair falling in his eyes and his hands delicately drawing the book out of it's space, you felt curiosity brim in you. You wanted to know him and you wanted him to know you. So, you walked over to him and said, “That's a book that will lead you gently by the hands till the end. It won't rush you or…” You stuttered as his gray-eyed gaze fell upon you. Words escaped you for the first time in your life, except when you count the times you were a toddler and you were wrapping your tongue around words for the first time.
You stared at him and he raised an eyebrow at you. Then he spoke. “I agree with you. I think the author painstakingly took her time to describe every detail in the book.” You nodded and you found your tongue loosening.
“Yes! Other readers might find it too slow but i think it was necessary for the author to write it this way.” You said.
“I'm Pope.” He gently placed the book back in it's space and stretched his hand towards you.
“Pippa.” Your voice came out in a slight squeak. And you took his hand in yours. And he smiled. And the world became still.
Sometimes, you felt Pope only reserved his smiles and laughter for you. When Pope laughed and his eyes crinkled, you felt this reassurance that you would be at his side forever. It wasn't a premonition or a vision you had had. It was the knowledge that you would do anything to make things work that kept you reassured. Pope didn't feel threatened by you. He pushed and encouraged you to become more. He held your hand at conferences and helped you edit your manuscript. He held you when you cried after publishing houses turned down your manuscript, saying it was too demanding and ‘unrealistic’. And when your manuscript got accepted, he picked you in his arms and spun you around. And you both fell on the springy bed and laughed and kissed. And you felt warm and giddy with happiness.
Then Pope died.
And the world became bleak. You wondered how you thought your life had been complete before. You felt foolish. You wondered how you had thought love and heartbreak was foolish. You wondered how foolish you must have been to think first love could work out. And maybe it might have. But life had done it's worst. You wept at his funeral and in nights to come, your pillow soaked with your tears at what was and what could have been.
When you married Douglas, you felt contentment and peace. You might not have loved him the way you had loved Pope. But you loved Douglas still. And maybe it was not fair on Douglas. But it was a happy sort of marriage. You and Douglas had kids and you loved them with your life. They made you happy and fulfilled you. The house rang with their noise and laughter. You were happy to be an author, a mother and a wife.
You slowly stand up to your feet. Your bones creak with old age. Apollo follows you as you make your way slowly to the garden. You reach a grassy mound. It is wreathed in flowers. You sit on the grass and gently place your hands on the headstone that's on the mound.
“Hey, Dougie. Do you feel at peace where you are? I'm sure you do. I feel at peace too. And I feel happy knowing the children and grandkids will be coming over for Thanksgiving tomorrow. The house will ring with laughter again. You should join us if you can. Thank you for helping me know what it meant to live a fulfilled life. Thank you for loving me.” You say. There are other unsaid words but you are sure Dougie would hear and understand them anyway.
Apollo places his head in your laps and you rub his warm fur as the sun sets behind the clouds.
Images are mine