A Postcard Landscape, One Lifetime Apart

love story, terminal illness, travel, descriptions

A young woman in love finds a beautiful place to call her own. Decades later, she returns.

Every step splashed mud across the winding path. It caked my boots and splattered the little dandelions and daisies lining the road, but I was careful to make sure it didn’t splatter my new dress. I’d saved up all year to buy it, walked all the way to the city to pick it up, and it could be no less than pristine when I wore it tomorrow at the festival. The dress, I was certain, would finally give me the confidence to ask him out. 

But for today, I could hardly control myself—my feet skipped without tripping over my swishing hem, my fingers danced at my sides, tracing the contours of the lichen-encrusted rocks. Through the whirlwind within my mind, I faintly made out a few coherent thoughts—they were just rocks! How could they be so alive, encrusted in frosty-green lichen and rust-colored moss? The whole world was alive today, the sun gleaming but not burning, the clouds moving in tandem across the sky, some pale wisps curling in and out of sight. I danced through a spot of sunlight, seeing in the corner of my eyes my flying silhouette on the side of the yellow-gold hills. My shadow was green, like emeralds, lush and glistening with the morning dew. It was beautiful. I was beautiful. I let out a laugh, those giddy rushes escaping my lips.

At the bend in the road, I slowed to weave my way through a flock of sheep. “Good day!” I told them brightly, imagining their baaa’s were greetings. 

An echoing call of “Good day!” drew my attention to a fisherman, barefoot and lounging atop some rocks by the stream. Shallow and rocky, the current burst in frothy white crowns around him. One hand steading the pole, he waved with the other. I would’ve stayed and struck a conversation, but at that moment, the bend of his line went taut, and his focus snapped back to the waters. Though unseen, I waved farewell, then skipped on through the hills, thoughts once again dissolving into incoherence, this messy tangle of memories and beauty and dreams wrapped in the pounding of my heart.

***

I took the long route back home from the city, pockets empty of the coins I’d spent on the best doctor for miles around. Our sons—just my sons now, weren’t they?—were waiting for the news I carried, but I didn’t think I could say it just yet—I didn’t want to be the one to end the hope that had been dwindling these past few months.

My feet, which had been sore an hour or two ago, were now numb, and my pendulum legs were the only thing dragging me onwards on this endless road. The dirt beneath me was packed hard and dry, littered with rocks that bled with coppery flecks and snapped twigs crusted in  lichen. The air was bleak and chilled with mist, and goosebumps prickled my sagging skin. Though I tried to watch my step, my thoughts kept wandering, and I had already tripped a few times. I barely acknowledged my bruises; over the years, I’d come to expect these consistent torments—old aches and creaking bones dulled my every moment—but now, unable to look forward to the raucous laughter of the next family dinner made it almost too much to bear.  Would it be worse to see the empty chair, or to remove the chair altogether? 

I cursed my inescapable broken heart. Even my younger years, the ones full of delights and my then-budding family, were now tarnished, as if I could only watch them through a grimy mirror. The colors dulled, the faces distorted. I wanted to cling to that mirror and consume the images behind the imperfections. I’d wring out every last hazy detail, embracing the people I once loved with reddened eyes. 

Later, where a makeshift bridge crossed a weak stream, I saw an old man. With surprise, I recognized him from a lifetime ago, on a dreamlike day. Slowly—agonizingly slow—he bent over a case of baits. He didn’t notice me. I pretended I didn’t either. 

Yet with him, memories flooded back, brilliant, vivid. That perfect day… I couldn’t place a date on it, couldn’t remember how long it’d been. I just remembered the beauty of it all, remembered my promise to return one day. Show it to someone I loved. With time, my own children. I was agonized by the memory—how could I have forgotten? It had felt so important; I’d spent so many nights dreaming of it. Picnics under the stars, music in the wind. Daisy crowns. And now? Those abandoned dreams were alien in my lonely world. 

Do you feel the sun, the dew on the grass? I always meant to share this place with your father—with all of you. 

The rest of the walk became a haze. Some time past noon, I caught sight of home—my eldest must’ve repainted the house while I was away, because it was a cheery lemon yellow now. He always overworked himself when he was worried. He was probably sitting with his paint buckets out front, waiting for me. I steeled myself, tried not to imagine his expression when he heard the news. 

We wanted to dance with each other but neither of us could muster the courage. But I gave him a daisy and we wandered around for hours, eating everything and anything, so long as it left our fingers crusted with sugar.

I was… smiling. No, I couldn’t think of that yet. It wasn’t the time for fantasizing. When would it ever be?

When you were children, you always came to me when you were happy or you wanted to show me something. But when you were sad or scared or hurt, it was him who would squeeze you tight and carry you upstairs. He’d put you down in front of the mirror and talk to you until you saw the moment you began to smile again.

It seemed I had a lot more to tell them than I’d thought.