rebonjour - h.s

fin

I was pregnant with my first child when I saw him again.

I had been married for a while, to a man who I suppose I loved.

This time, when I saw the stranger, I learned his name, and his death date. I saw it all, and I saw him standing in front of the nation's flag. He was in full uniform, masking the pain in his tragically green eyes with pride.

He didn't go back to his wedding. He didn't go back to his job. He joined the army. Like me, he turned away from all the negativity and sought refuge in a completely new place with completely new people.

He is in heaven, now, and I feel terrible to this day. He's been shot to pieces, and I was there, alive, blessed with the joy of carrying a child. It felt awfully unfair. I stomped all over him. I broke his heart, and did so consciously. I never found out exactly why he was so broken, even prior to the first time we met. I hate myself for it. I still cannot sleep at night because of it. I taught my children to never let themselves be so cruel, and instilled in them the principles of kindness. They are now happily married, so I hope I have taught them well.

I pray for him with every sunrise. He died on his thirty-third birthday. My husband heard my sobs that day, and came in to find me in hysterics before the television. I realized then that I didn't love my husband. It was foolish of me to buy into the possibility of loving someone else. I kept this secret for many years, until his untimely death in a boating accident.

I loved the boy too much, and it all happened too fast. We destroyed each other. We were right, in the end. Some of the things we said were true. But not all of them. We were very wrong. I was very wrong, especially. Why did I get on that train?

I still consider this. I'm old now, obviously, since I'm old enough to watch my grandchildren get married, though I don't do weddings. I carry his photograph in a locket around my neck, because I can never let myself forget. I know I would love weddings if I had one with him.

Each year on the anniversary of his birth and death, I visit his grave in Virginia to lay flowers there. Harry Styles. The stranger. He died with my angry letter burning like poison in his pocket. There was another one there, too. Not written by me. One, that by some miracle, ended up in my mailbox upon his death.

I believe it to be an appropriate ending for our story. A fast, ridiculous story. Perhaps meaningful, but perhaps not. A story of misfortune and evil disguised as one of happiness, chance, and luck. A tale of mistakes and cruelty. But also one of real, honest love. The kind that stirs something deep inside your chest. The type that sparks from a hot summer night that blossoms into something bigger. The sincere variety that you only come across once in a lifetime. I learned a lot from that boy. And I think he learned too much from me.

He wrote with the dignity that he always displayed. The powerfulness. It was all there.

"Dearest Stranger,

I miss you quite terribly. When I saw those train doors close, I knew it was truly over. It hurt, but I found joy knowing that someday, you'll find someone who loves you just the right amount. The universe no longer favors us as it did in the past. You were right about all that Arctic Monkeys shit. Not even Alex Turner could write up a song for us. He'd be too confused. Anyway, I'm lost forever without you, but I'd rather just accept the fact now. I don't need a marriage to cover it up. I love the way you talk, and the way you laugh. You're brutally honest, and I admire you so much. I would give anything to be with you, but I knew that you would give anything to get away from me. I wish we could get married. We would have a pretty great wedding reception, because I know you'd probably get drunk and dance on the tables. I'd be right up there with you, and it'd be a blast. I'd love to have a family with you, someday, but now that possibility has been dashed like a purchased item on a grocery list. I am aware we did nothing but tear one another down. But we propped each other up pretty good during those three days, wouldn't you say? You're great at sex. I hope you find someone who's just as good as you are, because I was captivated. You're also great at riding ponies. And kissing in general. And speaking French. You're a good person, and I hope you know I recognize that. I told people that I joined the army because I had nowhere to go. This was true, but the real reason was that I wanted to protect you. It sounds stupid, and you'd probably laugh your ass off if you actually read this, but you won't. Because I'm still a coward, you will never read this. You'll never hold this paper in your hand to read it for the first time, and you'll never smooth out all the wrinkles to read it for the eightieth time. Stranger, I hope all is well, and that you've forgiven me. I live in the fear that you haven't, but I try not to let this consume me. I just remember. Because my memories are the places where your smile lives, and where your eyes sparkle in the setting sun. My memories are where you dance like a maniac, and the band plays almost as loud as my heartbeat in my ears. Maybe our two losts will make a found in heaven, someday. I love you, stranger. I love you forever. May the music play on and on.

Yours always,

Harry."

You're not a coward.

I love you, stranger.

I really do.

FIN