I’m tending my garden, it’s new, well it’s new, and before and after. I find as one gets older there are moments that create bc and ad. Before children, after death. Cliched but pertinent. I’m sitting in the best spot and I think the best time. Spring daffs and new growth, a bleeding heart regrowing from underneath, anemones, and two large shrubs I’m trying to tame. All this drama whilst I soak up the last of the sun. My favourite kind; warming and revitalising, not stripping you bare.
I loved to run and run. Everywhere. The running, the bird’s eye view. It never ended; it has to end.
I always thought I’d write a girl meets boy type of story. Girl meets boy, have lots of sex, girl marries boy, still had lots of sex. The sweet, young love, who rolled you cigarettes and lit them and smiled. And my young self luxuriating from his leonine stare. And our belief that our physical communion was real and profound and how reverent we were. We bowed down before our lives. And in those cracks in reality, it was sublime. We had passion and we suffered. We were cruel. And then I look and I remember. We’ve forgotten to talk and then we forget again. We both weaved our tales and sprinkled our eyes with dust.
When I first met him. it was not auspicious but I met him. That’s his talent. You know but don’t know. And who wouldn’t? That smile so wide and generous, and hiding the cavern that would swallow you whole.
I’m living my perfect moment, birds singing, warm but weak, late spring sun shining on me. New growth, regrowth and things yet to come. And Peace. The quiet.
Once we stood loving and proud, oh, and so invincible. If only, if.
A moment, a moment remembered,. There we were, dancing and laughing, and running and dancing, and laughing and fucking. And then we were exhausted but still sacred. We were so sacred. He was my boy, my everything.
The first time I saw that face. That face that smiled, that smiled at you. A face that promised to listen. We had fun, lots of fun. But sometimes we were losers.
In the beginning, oh the beginning, what a start it was. The start you’ve always dreamed of; girl enters office, meets boy. Oh he was gallant, Sir Gallant, and she, I, fell in love.
I see the before; I listened, actively listened. It was new, everything was still new.
That moment, the change.
I sit in my garden, it’s already hot. The colours blaze, as do my cheeks in this oppressive sunshine. The brashness of the garden laid out in the unforgiving light. The bright purple clematis clinging to the fence and the rose, almost gross in its abundance of fleshy blooms.
I’m not sure how I came to all the decisions I did. I must have first wanted to silence him. Silence all the prattle. The waffle. The moaning. Anyway mustn’t dwell. But the first decision, out of many bad decisions, but the first decision must have been that. It must have, the alternative goes against how much I loved him.
Sometimes the need for silence, solitude, quiet, was huge . Ravenous. The desire could eat you. Whatever peace you require, you should be allowed to have. What if everything you did was wrong? First wrapped as a joke, as a laugh, get a grip, it’s just a joke. What if you don’t? What happens? The sideways glance, the monosyllabic answers, the closed body. You are causing this. That is what you’re told. Also I’m bloody hot all the time with fairly frequent blasts of volcano.
And I have no choice, the deal I made with the devil, myself, my liver. I meant my lover but… I’m funny.
There was a moment, a tap dripping. Incessantly, I think that was the moment. The moment I wished the story would end.
Maybe he was bleating. Bleating on. And on. Oh for god’s sake. Just shut it, shut it, shut it. I open my ears, he’s still stuck on talking. I’m not sure how it got there. But there, right there, there it was. Sticking up, sort of catching the last of the light, a slow blossoming of blood. Red. Beautiful scarlet, spreading. And I look at his face and whilst it is fixed in horror, it was also transformed to my sweet young love.
He looked at me, hurt and confused. His mouth open wide. I warned him not to touch the knife but he didn’t listen as I moved his phone just out of reach. I wasn’t sure at this moment if I would get away with it. I took his phone and left it upstairs. Then I took the dog and left the house.
It was a glorious afternoon, plenty of people were out walking, lots of hellos and the beginnings of an alibi. How close can they predict time of death? I will miss him.
I was surprised the dog wasn’t more upset but she’s always been my dog. you’d think she’d care a bit more. It was so peaceful, with the slight hum of traffic whilst bathing in the tree light.
I cried. I wish it was autumn and then the leaves could fall. Summer was here. The noon day sun strips us bare.
It’s a most beautiful day. It was summer when we picnicked in the woods. It was summer when we died.
The dog is sniffing in the undergrowth , she always approaches life as if it’s new. I love to watch her. Another sacred moment.
We walk home and I can feel the sweat dripping down my back, tickling my buttocks in an unpleasant way, my mouth dry.
There he lies. Transformed. So beautiful and white like a statue. I could love him now, so quiet.