I was living in Nova Scotia then, part of a troop of monks who'd crossed the sea to bring the good message of the lord. In the morning, at 3 AM, I'd walk the dark garden paths, brick covered in thin layers of moss, until I reached a small walled garden, with ivy and honeysuckle climbing its walls. In the yard, when all the other monks were at prayer I'd sit and think of her.
When I was fifteen and made to take up in the monastery because of some familial debts I'd been in love. The girl had hair the color of thatched roofs. She had green eyes and freckles across her nose. She was thin. It was as if her bones were weightless the way that she moved through the trees, with the grace of a swimmer through sheets of water.
Before I left, we stood at the back of my house, in a small walled garden not entirely unlike the one where I pray now. We were both crying, and it was nearing dusk. A few birds were sitting on the fence, looking for worms and eyeing us with curiosity. I told her that I didn't believe that this was the only world that would exist. I believed that there were other worlds, worlds in which we both traveled by ship to bring about the good news, worlds where we both stayed and lived together in the village where we grew up. I told her that there were worlds that both of us couldn't even begin to imagine. That in some ways it didn't matter that she wouldn't look up from a book with a sweet look on her face, as I lifted a lock of hair in my fingers. This was nearly immaterial, our lives a temporary stay and that we had to imagine these far away worlds. She said that she believe me, and we lay on the cold ground and stared up at the stars, which seemed so much more distant and useless than usual.
In the morning, we parted with a kiss, and I squeezed her hand. "You know," she said, pulling me close, "you just get the one life." And then the two of us parted, and I climbed the stairs of the ship and tried not to cry. We made decent time but lost three people to some food born illness. Eventually landing on the shores of Nova Scotia in relative safety.
Years and then decades passed, among these people who had never heard of our God. And now I am 85 years old, staring into the dark, having just wakened from a dream of Anna. my love, still not sure which one of was right. It's so cold here, and the pale light of the moon swims across the floor. Perhaps she is dead now, most likely she is, but I don't intend to think of her that way. Rather, I'm thinking of her in the world that lives just a split second after hours, where she's walking through a field of wheat, and she turns for a moment, the sunlight tangled in her hair, and then I am awake again, waiting only to die, and see which one of was correct in the end.
When I was fifteen and made to take up in the monastery because of some familial debts I'd been in love. The girl had hair the color of thatched roofs. She had green eyes and freckles across her nose. She was thin. It was as if her bones were weightless the way that she moved through the trees, with the grace of a swimmer through sheets of water.
Before I left, we stood at the back of my house, in a small walled garden not entirely unlike the one where I pray now. We were both crying, and it was nearing dusk. A few birds were sitting on the fence, looking for worms and eyeing us with curiosity. I told her that I didn't believe that this was the only world that would exist. I believed that there were other worlds, worlds in which we both traveled by ship to bring about the good news, worlds where we both stayed and lived together in the village where we grew up. I told her that there were worlds that both of us couldn't even begin to imagine. That in some ways it didn't matter that she wouldn't look up from a book with a sweet look on her face, as I lifted a lock of hair in my fingers. This was nearly immaterial, our lives a temporary stay and that we had to imagine these far away worlds. She said that she believe me, and we lay on the cold ground and stared up at the stars, which seemed so much more distant and useless than usual.
In the morning, we parted with a kiss, and I squeezed her hand. "You know," she said, pulling me close, "you just get the one life." And then the two of us parted, and I climbed the stairs of the ship and tried not to cry. We made decent time but lost three people to some food born illness. Eventually landing on the shores of Nova Scotia in relative safety.
Years and then decades passed, among these people who had never heard of our God. And now I am 85 years old, staring into the dark, having just wakened from a dream of Anna. my love, still not sure which one of was right. It's so cold here, and the pale light of the moon swims across the floor. Perhaps she is dead now, most likely she is, but I don't intend to think of her that way. Rather, I'm thinking of her in the world that lives just a split second after hours, where she's walking through a field of wheat, and she turns for a moment, the sunlight tangled in her hair, and then I am awake again, waiting only to die, and see which one of was correct in the end.
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