A Reflective Tale

     A Reflective Tale

     This is my story, or rather our story, about love and life and all of the hell that accompanies it. I'm sitting here at my antique oak desk. I rather enjoy the musty scent that flows from within it; it dates back almost as far as myself.

     It has been nearly a century since I last saw her face; each second taking me farther from her. For a while after I began to fear that I would forget what she looked like, how her hair parted so perfectly revealing those constantly blushing cheeks. But yet, still to this day, her face is all I can see when I shut my eyes.

     This is the story of the ending of her life; the story of her stubbornness. The story of how I watched her wither away until she was simply a bag containing the dust that was once her bones.

     Amelia gracefully descended the stairs leading into the kitchen of the old victorian house; her skirt swayed behind her like the ghost she would soon become. We had found the house back in the summer of 1952; she was so young back then. At ninety four she was the oldest surviving member of the Matthers family. Her eyes scanned the room looking about here and there until they finally met with my own, “good morning,” she called to me.

     Her voice was different now, it had grown raspy over the decades, a testament to the time passed. She walked with a slight limp, a oddly pleasurable reminder of our honeymoon spent hiking in the mountains of Europe, “good morning,” my voice was still smooth and rich, my first spoken words of the day never failed to fill me with guilt, “and how are we this morning?”

     She took her time crossing the room, placed her hand upon my knee and gave it a slight squeeze. Her hands still miraculously contained all the strength they had in her youth, “still kicking,” she said giving my ankles a slight tap with her bare feet. Ever the optimist.

     “Oh, and by the way,” she reached into her breast pocket and extracted a small felt box, “happy anniversary.”

     I took the box in one hand and her hand in my other. The stark contrast of our respective flesh made me wince, I saw her do the same, though she will deny it if I were to ask. Carry on I tell myself.

“Thank you dear.” The box contained a a pair of sparkling silver cuff links. The center of the first read 19, the second read 48. Seventy years for her, almost an entire lifetime; for me barely a beat of my heart. 

     I had met her after the war, or after the Earth war rather. My people had sent me to the Earth to help end the war before it ended them. I helped create the atom bomb. I was the main technician behind the entire Manhattan project. You will not find my name in any history books however, and my existence will officially be denied by any governments involved. Yet here I sit. I met Amelia when she was helping the injured infantry men. I fell in love with her. I never should have done that but my firm belief is that love will give you no choice in the matter.

     I was told by my people to leave it be, to return home. I hadn't; although during the next few decades I selfishly found myself wishing that I had.

     You see, my people don't age the same as Earthlings. It is no oddity at all for us to live nine or ten times longer than is expected on Earth. I have been married seventy years to the day now; all the while knowing that I would get the short end of the stick when it came to 'till death to us part.

Amelia knew this was part of the deal heading into things. Our hearts said yes when our brains should have said no. Day after day, year after year I watched her grow old, wither as she grew closer to the end.

     She is dying now. No medicine can save her life. The cancer has a grip that it will not surrender. If the tumors don't take her this fall then the winter winds will take their toll on her. It will be slower perhaps, more painful, but in the end the results will not change.

     I reach into my pocket to retrieve her gift, she gives my hand a gentle rap and tells me that we agreed on not giving gifts this year; that was before the diagnosis. She could never restrain herself from buying me at least a small something. She tells me that whatever I got her this year can wait until next. She still hasn't excepted the news. She never will. Ever the optimist.