The Creases of Memory
The blood red sun was slowly but surly disappearing behind the trees which surrounded the house. Standing on the balcony, she watched for the millionth time, still able to admire the beauty of this place.
Hills, trees, grassland and birds enclosed the big wooden home, its second story balcony showered in the last rays of the dying sun. An elderly women with a smooth, oak, walking stick stood there, not looking quite her plus eighty years. Casually dressed in a white shirt and trousers, a scarf draped around her, the thin and light clothes matched the delicate old figure they covered perfectly. It was an outfit with comfort in mind, she lived in a warm part of the country, the valley lush in plantlife and sun. The house was completely isolated from civilisation, a few miles of road to the next house and village where she did her shopping. The rich wood of the building was so in tune with the lush green of the forestry around you had to think that if an artist were to paint the scene he or she might well entitle it 'tranquility'.
An artist and a musician herself she appreciated beauty like this and considered herself extrodinarely lucky to be able to live in this paradise. It was perfect for her as it had been for her late husband whom she had married almost sixty years ago. He had been an extremely successful architect and together they had designed the house and chosen the location themselves. It hadn't been cheap but forty five years later and still she loved it. Her husband had felt the same before he passes away , over two years ago now. She was old and as September drew in she knew she only had a few more summers left. Then they'd be together again.
The sun's light had faded beyond a glimmer on the horizon and before the night could cool her down she hobbled back inside and closed the screen doors.
Her 'Nufi' or Newfoundland puppy was asleep downstairs by the fire. She'd had to give the mother away. An adult Newfoundland looked like a bear and although adorably friendly and extremely loving, their sheer size made them too much for a single old lady. She liked having a dog around though, good company.
Using an electric chair to descend the stairs, she then made her way across the warm living room to the piano stool. Her grand piano shone against the crackling firelight, it's deep rich brown so welcoming to her.
Twinkling a few notes she reached to the small circular table beside it and picked up an old, battered box her husband had carved for her when she was sixteen.
It was overshadowed by the grandour of the house this rough old box but it and its contents were some of the most previous items in the old woman’s life.
Holding it like it was her first born she lifted the lid off and placed it on the white keys of the centuary old instrument. Prising the delicate old letters out she straightened them in her hands feeling the rough texture of the yellowing paper against her skin. Curled slightly at the corners the paper was as delicate as the reader and almost as old. Illuminated by the firelight the black ink came to life as she read, traveling back in time.
The letters had been written while John was away fighting in the second world war.
They were both barley adults when he went away and were married in 1946, a few months after he returned.
In no hurry, she waltzed through the words and letters for a few minutes, content with memory. Then, halfway down the page she met a large smudge, completely obscuring the majority of the sentence. The flow of memories stuttered then stopped altogether as she discovered that she had no idea what the sentence should say.
'John-' she stopped herself, the sound dying on her throat as the cold realization met her like a wave. There was no one to answer. Frustrated she gazed down at the letter and saw a fresh smudge. She put the letters down and the tears came out. She missed him so much.
A minute or so later she felt a wet sensation on her hand and looked down to see her puppy nuzzling her its tail wagging. Hungry again.
Blinking away the tears she clapsed her stick and rose shakily to her feet. The dog bounded ahead, looking back every few seconds to check his mistress was following.
A smile broke through on Eve's face, because it was true, time changed things.
Letters faded, ink smudged and people died.
But true love lived on.
Michael Hepburn
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