This Never Happened (Olympus Drive Chronicles)

Not the end

What? You didn't think there'd be happy ending? There had to be. I mean, I was telling the story right? Ergo I survived.

No. I did more than survive. I lived.

As I type this, two little boys sleep on my chest. One is muddy and I don't even know why considering he had a bath an hour ago. But he's muddy again. That's good for little boys. They're clean, and smell like baby soap. And because they are identical I don't actually know which is which right now. Yeah, of course we got twins. Perfect, little blonde haired blue eyed twins that have their mother's sweet smile, and my propensity to break shit and get into trouble. They're a handful. I wouldn't trade them for anything.

Alexander and Anise. Their mother named them. I like the names. They came into this world on a cold fall day, both healthy and sobbing . I was terrified I didn't think I knew how to hold them. But they both fell asleep in my arms. They do every single night. I kiss their cheeks, and tuck them, tell them stories. Most of which aren't true. Some are. Like tonight for example. 

Juno is getting ready for bed. I was telling them their bedtime story. This weekend we're going to see their uncle Isaac, so I'm telling them about the time I and their Uncle Isaac went hiking and got lost and in trouble with the Boy Scouts. They fell asleep listening to my voice, one in either crook of my arm. Soon Juno will come and pick them up quietly, and lay them in their beds, where they'll stay for about eight minutes before winding up in our bed, poking us with their weird little boney feet and being generally possessive of the blankets.

There are still ghosts in my head. My sons are four now. They know they had older siblings who didn't live to be older than they are. But they don't mind it. The ghosts live on in soft memories. And most of the day I'm drawn up into the cares of our world. Little boys who dig in the dirt, play with trucks, and want to attempt to ride the dogs. A good life. Sometimes the ghosts creep back. Usually in the dark. But not always. Sometimes I'll be in the garden, and I'll watch Juno telling the boys about their plants, only to feel Meg's cold hand on my shoulder. Or hear her telling me about the geraniums that she never got to plant.

I'm not saying it gets easier. I'm saying I go on.

Because what sort of story would that be, if I didn't ever find a way to go on? Not much. It doesn't matter either way, I suppose. Because none of this ever happened. But if it did. I'd want you to know that I lived.

Not the End

That's the point, isn't it? That the story isn't over.