Rememberence (Time for my story then)

Most of her family members and friends came on stage and spoke. They were good words, strong words, beautiful words, all spoken for my Marie. Everyone liked her, most of them loved her, but two days back, she’d cried, “Jamessss….” When I had reached her and taken her cold hand, she’d muttered, “I…I love you, James,” and stopped breathing. She closed her eyes and left me forever.

For the third time, she’d suffered a heart attack, and try as hard as she did, Marie couldn’t accompany me any longer. Life’s journey had ended for her.

Now, my turn to speak on the stage had arrived. I had to thank all those who had offered such kind words to Marie.

I got up. Those septuagenarian legs wobbled and my grandson came running down the aisle and supported me. I’m still strong, I know I can go on for a decade, or even more, but the moment had gotten to me. Those words that people spoke for Marie wobbled my legs.

As I made my way to the dais, I had a chance to glance at Marie. She was sleeping now, deep, undisturbed sleep in a casket that looked more comfortable than our bed. I was glad because she had to sleep there forever.

I stopped and watched her. I know people in this small church are waiting to hear from me. The pastor has his arms folded; those compassionate eyes beckon me. But I just had to watch my beautiful Marie. After all, she would be a rare sight soon.

Tears pricked my eyes. I was holding them from bursting out. My shaking hands touched the mahogany of the coffin and I started to remember my past. They all came flooding back.

We’ve been married for forty years, we’ve lived together for forty-five years, and I had met her half a century back. We’ve raised two sons and three daughters, and from them, fifteen grandchildren have arrived, but I still remembered that moment, the day Marie appeared before me like an angel sent from heaven.

I was a young twenty-one year old. The year was 1924. I was away studying at Cambridge University. But the summer vacation was upon me, and catching those steam engine trains, I’d made my way to my village.

Before I entered my house, I stopped to marvel our small cottage. A large garden enveloped our house. From plants brought from all around the world, flowers were beginning to blossom. Trees, fig and sycamore, muscled their presence, standing tall and wide. On their boughs, birds twittered, delighting in the warm summer air. I had sighed, deep and satisfied. It felt good to be home.

My mother met me at the door. Four months away from her and I’d missed her pampering. She hugged me, kissed both my cheeks, and said, “My son.”

I moved away, irritated with my mum’s affection. “Bryony!” she shouted. My sister.

She appeared on the hall. There was another girl behind her.

My sister hugged me and said, “James, I guess you haven’t met Marie, our cousin. She’s just arrived from Barcelona.”

Marie smiled, widening her thin lips, and brushed her long, black hair backwards. I said, “Hola!” and hugged her. Her soft shoulders and warm cheeks made my heart quiver.

She was a classic Spanish beauty, very much in my mother’s mould. Her chestnut brown eyes were large and mesmeric, penetrating my core instantly. She stood about 5’3, just about the right height for me. And against her fair skin, those long, wispy black hair matched perfectly. I couldn’t keep my eyes off her.

We sat down to talk in our living. My mother inundated me with things she’d been doing. Bryony interrupted with her prattle. School and her friends were her topic. Amidst all the natter, I kept gazing at Marie. The first time our eyes met, we smiled awkwardly. But I realized there was something in Marie, in those eyes, in that innocent smile, that said she liked me too.

Later, I asked Marie if she could speak English. I inquired in what little Catalonian I knew. She laughed. “Sure, I can,” she said.

It was only after my mother and my sister also laughed and told me that she had an English mother, that I realized she was like me, half Spanish, half English. In Barcelona, she attended an English school. If I had any doubts that Marie and I were incompatible, it washed away then.

Over the course of next sixty days, I developed a deep and meaningful friendship with Marie. We picnicked a lot. Marie prepared sumptuous burritos. Sometimes, we went alone, requesting Bryony to keep mum busy. Though, those initial moments were awkward and we seldom chatted freely, that changed.

I played guitar, and serenaded to her, expressing my deep affection for her. She said she knew Salsa. Though we never found time to dance. Then, one day, after a glass of wine, I held her hand. We were both sleeping on a green grass, witnessing the formation the clouds were making in the sky.

She didn’t flinch or withdraw her hand.

It was then, at that moment, as I continued to hold her hand for a long time, laughing at our interpretation of the clouds, my infatuation turned to love.

I got up, looked down at Marie and said, “I think I’m in love with you, Marie.”

She blushed, looking away. Birds chirped nearby as I touched her hair. “What do you think of me?”

She didn’t say anything, but when she stretched her neck, for her lips to touch mine, I knew her answer. It was our first kiss, and what followed was the most blissful moment of our lives. On the soft, comfortable grass, we made love. The trees hid our bodies, and the blue summer sky delighted in our union, bursting open with shower after we finished.

When summer was finally over, we’d discovered true love. My soul mate had arrived, and I never had to chase, or even look at another girl. We married after I graduated and found work.

If ever there was such a thing as a perfect couple, Marie and I should share that distinction. Though we had our fair share of arguments and misunderstandings, we never shouted at each other. It was love that always won. And for fifty years, our love never diminished a tiny bit.

Our legacy still continues. None of our children are divorced. They enjoy a perfectly happy married life. I hope the same thing continuous with our grandchildren.

I must have been stood there a long time, remembering our past. A hand touched my shoulder. By its softness, the length, I realized it was Cecilia, our eldest daughter. I turned around to look at her. Her watery chestnut brown eyes, Marie’s eyes, came to my view. She said, “Daddy, do you want me to thank everybody? It’s ok if you-.”

“No!” I silenced her and trudged along to the stage.