To be a Wildflower

Epilogue

Chelseaville 2018

Once the door closed after Elizabeth, Harrison sat in his chair, unperturbed, at least in appearance, because his mind was agonisingly tumultuous by the look of distress in the girl's eyes as she persisted him to open the envelope.

The envelope laid before him, unexposed.

He couldn't understand why the girl from the city ventured so far and threw herself so selflessly into the hands of trouble- like a messenger travelling from the depths of hell and purgatory in desperate search for paradise. There was only one person in his life he had known who would have taken part in such a selfless mission- Hope. That's what his mind was gnawing at, Elizabeth Hartley resembled a striking silhouette of Hope that he could not schism.

The cobblestone walled cottage was colder than ever and the heat outside was senseless to the insider. Harrison hoisted himself up from the armchair and stepped towards the old hearth- cobwebbed and forgotten. He bent down, with a slight tremor--which had been an unfortunate after effect of--according to his doctor-- "a long term of unacceptable heavy work" (to which Harrison had blatantly told the doctor to piss off for incriminating honest labour.)-- and threw a log of wood that was piled unnoticed beside the hearth onto the furnace. The furnace glowed successfully after three matchsticks. Even after all these years the coal ash of the furnace was dry enough for a flame to survive.

A part of the living room had an orange glow that faded into the corners and angles of the once dark room that was only lit by the faint light of a stand lamp and a ceiling bulb, which was only used when Harrison left Jasper's house to water plants  at the cottage and have his weekly walk by the ranch past seven in the night, when nobody could see him.

He filled his glass with whiskey, the only thing he treasured within the cottage walls and walked back to his chair. A small insignificant part of him, ached within to know what lay inside the envelope, and the whiskey helped him proceed without overthinking. After he drained his glass, he neatly scraped off the opening of the envelope and pulled out a folded paper. His face turning slightly pale and cold, as if he was about to take a leap back in time. He quickly unravelled the paper with trembling hands before his senses took over him:

Harrison, Harry,

I wish you can find it in you to forgive me for keeping something vital away from you for so long. I'd love to get into details about my life here, but I'm afraid I can't waste any more time than I already have.

I know I stole something along with me when I left Chelseaville, and that was the part of you that belonged, not just to the town or you, but to the whole world. I was selfish and greedy for a lover, but that's what's funny about love isn't it? We always take more than what the other can give by nature, and it is the forbidden part that's always robbed in desperation.

If you're wondering why it took me nineteen years to write this letter, well, as you must have guessed and knew, I let the city take over me: you were right, I am a sucker for shiny stuff, even if they're  just fluorescent lights on Times Square or in the usual pub downtown.

I couldn't pretend another day knowing you were lost between life and death-- and how do I know this? Because that's where am I too...in limbo. My husband couldn't make it to fifty, and I feel utterly inhumane for writing a letter to an old lover. I couldn't save him Harry.

All my life I've been chasing around saving people from the throes of life, trying to show them that there's a world of greatness and goodness they've never seen, and it never occurred to me that I would do the same for me—but now I know that I need to save the both of us from losing ourselves to the darkness over a promise neither of us couldn't hold onto nor can't seem to let go of.

I would love to paint my tale of saving you like a white knight, galloping through the rubble of a ruined castle...oh I could go on, rambling for days, but I promise to keep this short, I really do.

I'm trying to picture Chelseaville after all these years- the voluptuous lake, and the river, a silver rope that ran through the heart of the town, thrumming its own musical rhythm, and then the Crawford ranch...ah the ranch. I'm not stupid to believe that the ranch is green and alive, in fact if I'm right it should be a barren land as of now. Here's what I stole first- the way your eyes softened, and your pupils rose in faith whenever your gaze turned towards the acres of the Crawford ranch- I stole it the day you bestowed that gaze upon me, leaving the ranch unattended.

That ranch was nurtured by your love, she needs you now more than I do. I'm gone, it's years too late sweet Harry.

The second: I don't know who you've befriended and loved, but whoever they are they do not deserve half of you. I took that half you saved for the world. It's not mine to keep anymore. You looked at me like I was the only soul on earth who could light up the darkness, but what you didn't see was your own aura, lighting up every dark corner in town. It wasn't the words you spoke, because boy you were horrible at talking sentiments! It was your presence, how it truly existed for the ones around. It would just be a shame if the world could not even take a glimpse of it.

I thought you never understood my world of creepers, fireflies and fairies- the world I wanted to see and did most of the time- but you always did, I feel it now, that's how I know you're reading this letter.

I feel lighter already, and I shouldn't be surprised, because to even have the remotest thought of you makes the world look and feel so small and airy, I could almost spin it off my fingertips. I have gathered the courage to rise up and be cast away to wherever the winds desire to take me, and as for you- you can close your eyes and let the winds of the south carry you forward onto tomorrow, because oh, there's no better day than tomorrow, when all you've lost is waiting for you.

I won't leave out the one question you never got answers for: why I never came back, even when I had an anchor.

Like Ursula Brangwen said, "If I were the moon I'd know where to fall." I wasn't and still am not. I'm just a girl who got swept away by the shiny stuff 'like a moth to a flame', taking out my own flame in the process. I couldn't take away yours too.

It's time to look upon your own light, one without me or the flame of me in it, and when you do, I'll always know. This will be the last I'll ever write, and something tells me, this is the last I'll ever need to.

Goodbye Harrison Crawford,

Love always, Hope.

November 23rd, 1994.

Harrison held the letter tightly in his hands, his heart heavy and full, but also lifted off its rusted hinges that had refused to stir for years. The cottage had been cold regardless of the lit fire, but it was not anymore. The warmth spread through his body like a wave of hot air, causing the exhausted darkness, which had hardened in his eyes, to melt away into a shining limelight.

Harrison laid his head back against the armchair and closed his eyes with a deep trembling breath, feeling himself slowly hoisted out of an imminent submersion.

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