Normally, this would be the part you were waiting for. This would be where I’d dive into great depth about my adventures and wonderment. I’d give you the extraordinary details of how I took flights, ferries, and train rides alone. Of how I hiked through rugged terrain, and hitchhiked through sketchy towns.
Maybe this is where I’d tell you about how Europe became my playground, Paris became my love, Amsterdam: my sin. I’d speak to you of how I stood atop The Great Wall of China, contemplating if it was true that you could see it from space, but in the end, decided that it wasn’t. I’d describe their foods until the point you could taste them. I’d illustrate their sights until you could see them for yourself. I’d portray their drugs until you felt your own ego dissolve, like I did mine. I’d tell you how I became immersed in their cultures, and got lost in their languages.
This is where you’d get excited, listening to my tales of running with the bulls, swimming with the sharks, and walking with the lions. Sure, I’ve made memories, millions of them crammed into what’s now nothing but a glimpse in time. But (because there’s always a but, isn’t there?), they were memories made alone. I was gone for four months, separated from the ones I cared about, the ones I loved; the ones I should’ve made those memories with.
There were two little sisters giggling and skipping through a vineyard in Napoli. I watched and sipped my wine, wishing I could glance over at Mia and share a smile, and then we’d show those girls the proper way to skip. There was a daughter crying in the streets of Prague, lost in a herd of people for what was only a minute, but in her mind, an eternity. Her mother found her quickly. I watched both of their hearts drop and raise as they ran into each other, hugging with great intensity.
I wanted to hug my mother. Our last phone call was not a pleasant one, and I used words I wished I could’ve changed. The worry that woman must’ve felt, both that little girl’s mother and my own, and well, I guess all of the mothers out there. It was a tender type of worry that I knew I would never know.
I wondered, what would my child be like? I couldn’t help but envision a girl. I’d imagine most mothers do at first, with the selfish image of themselves in tinier versions. Would she have my eyes, or her father’s? Would it even matter? When your own blood circulates through another being, the features handed down are probably less pronounced, or distorted in the reflection of a better-looking mirror. I wouldn’t care if she had my eyes, my nose, or my hair, as long as she didn’t have my disease.
Would I name her after me? And why don’t more mothers do so? Why is it okay for a father to name his son after himself? They add a Jr. to the end of it like a God given birthright. There’s no juniors in the world of mothers, is there?
Olivia Gardner Junior; it had a nice ring to it.
It was in Ireland—my favorite place of all—where I saw an old couple, hopelessly in love and defying the odds. Endless love, another one of those concepts I’d never know. But to be fair it’s a concept that most don’t. Even couples that stay together until their dying day, usually do so with a used up love, one that has changed from admiration to toleration throughout the years. Though this old couple was far different.
They were in their late seventies, but moved around like they were thirty years younger. Their withered faces succumbed their youthful eyes like binding leather, accentuating the blues of his and the greens of hers. I watched them closely as we toured the Kilkenny Castle.
The sky was dreary with overcast that day, but the sun attempted to poke through and created waves of orange hues behind the clouds, as if above our heads the Celtic Gods were at war, and fire bestowed their battlefields. It was beautiful. The castle itself stood the test of time, with stonemasonry to outlast us all.
Their names were Martin and Abigail, two Irishman from Vermont who’ve never been to Ireland before. Martin had finally hung up his work boots a decade too late, like so many before him. But now, in their shared exuberance to see the world, vitality pumped into their aging hearts. And it became clear that a decade too late wasn’t too late after all.
They laughed and caroused together every step of the way. They drank beers, made dirty jokes, and exchanged conversations without words.
I approached them, timid as a deer. They had a confused intensity about them; ancient yet spry. Venerable. If I startled them, I felt like their old bones might leap out of their body, and leave their youthful hearts beating behind.
“Hi, I’m Olivia. I’m sorry but I have to say, you two really know how to make these other couples look bad.”
They both laughed.
“Hi, Olivia. Well, they better take heed then, huh?” Martin said, and took a healthy gulp of beer.
“How long have you been married?” I asked.
“Next year is our sixtieth,” Abigail said, and then Martin broke in, “And we’re hoping through the advance of technology that we’ll get sixty more.” They both laughed again, looked at each other and gazed back into the green of the countryside.
“That’s amazing,” I said, “but if that were true, you think you could handle another lifetime together?”
“Are you kidding?” Martin said and looked at his wife. “Life is about the one’s you love, my dear, and a lifetime without my love would be a life I wouldn’t want to live.”
They went on ahead, and that was the last I talked to them. But throughout the day I’d observe and steal my glances. Almost sixty years of marriage and they still held hands, they still kissed, they still unconditionally loved.
What am I doing here?
The question rocked me in place. I thought I was living my life while I had the time. Then I asked myself why, and it made me see what I was doing. I wasn’t there to live my life before it came to an end. I was there avoiding it.
If you’re alone in a memorable moment; is it even a memory at all? I can’t recall on them with a smiling face next to me, asking, “Remember the time we…?”. All the memories I made, I had made alone. They were experiences I’d take to the grave with no one to share them with but myself. Martin and Abigail had a lifetime of moments charted in the album of their minds. I’d hear them flip to certain pages in their talks.
“Hey, Abby? Remember back in our twenties when we were drinking in Montreal?” Martin asked, his voice slurring from the booze; his cheeks had been painted red. “Remember that poor sap who tried giving you his number, and what you said to him?” They chuckled and clanged their glasses together as they relived the moment. The details left were unsaid, but were shared in the way they looked at each other. It was an inside joke that’d gone on for fifty years, and it still made them smile.
It was then, I began to feel more alone than ever.
The inner pocket of my jacket began to burn. There was something in it attempting to fire a hole into my breastplate. I reached in and grabbed it. It was a folded card I had forgotten was there; it had felt like a lifetime ago when he handed it to me. The card was crinkled, with bent edges and worn ink. Though his name was still clear, and the numbers were still legible. There was a tiny voice from down the hollowed well of my conscience. It was telling me something; it was pleading with me. The voice became louder, angrier, until it shouted in the timbre of a drunken Irishman.
“Call him! Call James, you fook!”
From where I was—surrounded by the lush of clover, a serenity in the fields of absinthe—I had only one memory come to mind, though it was more of a feeling; more of a desire. As the jagged beauty of the castle lay behind me, the sun finally broke out of the fog and illuminated the landscape with the scenic glow of emeralds.
But even surrounded by such vivid allure, my mind was back on that filthy train.
My eyes were lost in his.
My heart was beating in his hands.