living next door to alice

POOR ALICE

Her hair was not long or short, but just right and full of rich brown curls. She was not uncommonly beautiful, nor was she comely, but just plain enough to be pretty in her own way. She was not fat nor was she thin; she was simply a middle of the road girl, in the middle of an identity crisis.

Being neither beautiful nor unattractive, thin or fat, she would spend her days in quiet regret, wishing to be one or the other. Anything that would distinguish her from the masses of people who lived in the Valley.

In the center of the village was a garden of flowers, stone paths and benches beneath shade trees. Every day you could see her setting on a bench under three tall maple trees, reading or watching the people pass by.

She wore a wooly, grey turtleneck sweater and a long skirt made of blue faded denim, and Victorian thigh high black boot. Each day she would set pouring over volumes of text and paid little attention to the jeer’s and the stares. Such was the way of Poor Alice.

She never saw, or at least let it show, that I watched here every day. In Early Year as the garden would bloom each shade of every color on blankets of green, I would set in the shade on the far side from her and watch.

As Latter Year snows sparkled frozen like gemstones, her bright pink beret and tan lambskin coat was the focal point of winter’s creation.

Now I must admit to my faintheartedness. Many times I would wrestle with myself over whether or not to make myself known to her and all but once did I stay out of sight.

It was the first handful of days in Latter Year, there came a surprise rain and as others panicked and ran she stayed where she was taking in the joy of the pour. I sat marveling at her and she looked up only once, at me.

I was drawn to her, her gaze held me captive as my body worked like a clumsy machine towards her, my mind blank from infatuation. Her eyes a deep azure blue worked their spell on me as I sat down beside her. This was the way of Poor Alice.

We talked of our passions, we talked of our pains the wind tossed her dark curly hair. It was the meeting of a lifetime, the joining of fractured souls. We were married two months later, in the snows, under our trees.

When you find your life’s love. The missing piece, you discover that no matter the challenge, victory is assured. This was the way it was for us. We were poor and often in need, yet we always seemed to find our way through every challenge.

We were to have a child the following Latter Year just before Resurrection. Our lives were to be complete. It was late in Latter Year, the snows were melting and the sun became warmer, when Poor Alice took ill. It was a cold at first, and then it got worse.

I never left her side. The doctors begged to save one or the other, she would not have it. We had faced other challenges, we would face this challenge and we would win again. We would.

The first warm day that came, she demanded to go to the park. I walked with her to our trees and we sat in the light of the first warm day of Early Year. Her rich brown curls swaying in the light breeze, her deep blue eyes bright once more.

We looked into each other’s eyes, like we had the first day in that gentile rain. I held her close to me and sang her a lovely song. We sat there until I could not feel her warm breath on my neck, then I lay her on the bench, knelt her feet and preyed. I sat at her feet until I could no longer stay awake.

When I did wake up, I had no idea where I was, or what had happened. I went to the park and sat. Time is marked hard when you’ve lost something important. It’s like there is no time, just disjointed periods of lucidity that make little sense.

It’s not easy walking through life with hole in your heart. A hole that can never be filled, or put back together. I know I should not have grieved, I know that I should have gone on in her wake

There is only one time in life when you get all that you need to be complete in life. And when, either by calamity or design, when that one thing is removed, there is no salvation from the void it brings. There is no elucidation, only the dark spot that once was light.

The time we had was a miracle.