New Year's Eve 2012

Tomorrow is a new year, River. I haven't talked to you again since I saw you outside the library. I've been thinking that maybe I need to try another way to win you over. I want you to love me, but could I ever, ever be deserving of your love?

I bought a cabin in Canada. It's in a very remote northern part of Manitoba. I thought that we could go there on vacations or maybe we could even live there, if you like that sort of thing. I only have the paperwork so far. I haven't been there yet. I have to fly to Churchill, get supplies and then charter a small flight out to the cabin. I'm not quite sure what I've gotten myself into, but it felt good to do something that was just for me - and hopefully for you some day. Everything else in my life had memories of my family attached. The cabin is the first thing that's mine and it won't be haunted by my parents or my grandfather.

I looked around the cabin. It was a sweet little place. I wondered if you had furnished it all by yourself. I decided that I would probably find out if I kept reading.

January 14, 2013

I'm at the cabin. It's pretty barren. There are a few beds, a stove and a small refrigerator, a junky old generator that barely works, and a fireplace. I will have to provide more furnishings and find someone who's willing to help me move everything in. I guess I should make friends with someone who has a plane. The fellow who flew me out here this time was quite nice. His name was Ferg. Odd, but still a kindly person.

I suppose maybe I should spend some time in Churchill to get to know a few people.

I wondered, then, how far we actually were from Churchill. Was it really too far to get there on foot? Or did you just charter a plane because you weren't sure how far it was? Or because you had to move furniture in?

Then I had an idea.

“Zayn?” I called, not seeing you nearby.

“Yes, love,” you responded, coming out of the bathroom.

“Can I talk to you?”

“Sure,” you said, coming to sit next to me on the loveseat.

“I want you to be honest with me, okay?”

“Sure, what's up?”

“Well, that's the first thing, Zayn. I want you to promise me to tell me the truth from now on, no matter what I ask. Will you agree to that?”

You grabbed my hand and said, “Absolutely, love.”

“Good, then let me ask you one thing for now.”

“What is it?”

“Do you promise that you won't hurt me?”

“With all my heart, love. I promise you that I would never, ever, ever, not in a million years and not even if my own life depended on it!” You said all of that in such an exaggerated way, it made me laugh. And you laughed, too. I hadn't heard you laugh much, but I liked it. I liked seeing you happy.

"I have one more question. How far is Churchill?"

You smirked and it brought a little twinkle to your eye. "So, you figured out where we are?"

"I did my homework."

"About 40 kilometers."

My jaw dropped as I did the conversion. "That's only about 25 miles. It's so close."

You shrugged, and then you asked, “And now will you answer one question for me?”

“Sure,” I said.

You looked down and fiddled with your hands and then you asked shyly, “Do you think I'm a monster?”

I furrowed my brows, trying to decipher what was behind the question. But I answered, “No, Zayn. I think you're wounded. I think you're confused. I think you've made some bad choices, but you've also done a lot of wonderful things.”

“Like what?”

“Well, for starters, you managed to keep your grandfather and yourself together during a time when you really needed each other. And you kept your parents' death from him so he wouldn't have to suffer the way you did. That's an awful lot for a little kid to bear. And I think it was you who kept your grandfather alive for so long.”

“How so?” You asked, clearly mystified by my assumption.

“If you had been separated, he would have known that no one in a nursing home loved him the way he was loved at home. He would have felt it, even though he couldn't fully understand. People can sense those things. Having you there to love him and care for him probably prolonged his life. And you, just a little kid, took care of a grown man who had Alzheimer's disease. Do you realize how remarkable that is?”

You just shook your head.

“It's unheard of. Most people who try to take care of a parent or spouse with Alzheimer's end up having them institutionalized, or at the very least, they rely on some outside care, respite care, so that they can get a break. Did you ever have a break during those years?”

“Well,” you answered. “I went to school. And I had to buy groceries.”

“Did you ever worry about leaving him home alone?”

“No, I guess I didn't. But I locked the door to the upstairs when I went out, so he wouldn't come down and try to go outside alone. I made sure he had food for the day, and there was a bathroom upstairs."

“Zayn, your childhood was stolen from you. Your parents died a horrible death when you were ten, and then you grew up taking care of your grandfather. So, in answer to your question, no, you are in no way a monster. You're a hero.”

Your face showed your happiness with my words. Then you asked, “But what about this?” And you gestured to the cabin around us.

“Well, it wasn't the right thing to do, for sure. You get understand that, right?"

Your face fell and you nodded slightly.

"I get it, though. I understand why you did this," I told you.

You nodded again and then you whispered, "But there's no way you could ever love me now. Not after what I did to you. I've made a mess of it all."

"For what it's worth, Zayn, I like you a lot," I said, squeezing your hand.

You brushed your hand along my cheek and said, “Thank you for understanding.”

I wanted to kiss you again in that moment, but I restrained myself, not wanting to add to your confusion and hurt.

I kept reading for a long time after that, and I think I read through the rest of the year in one sitting. I even read about the time that I saw you when I was on the camping trip near Winnipeg. You had been at the campground for a very different reason than following me. You were doing some work for the caretaker of the campground in exchange for his lessons on wilderness survival and some free supplies. It was pure, dumb luck that I had ended up there that summer. And of course, you saw me.

I finished 2013 and then I looked in the pantry, wanting to find out what I could make for dinner that didn't involve fish, even though we still had leftovers. I found a can of chicken, some dry milk, some rice and then I grabbed a stick of butter from the fridge. You must have bought ten lbs. of butter before you brought me here. The fridge was well stocked with butter, bacon, lunch meats, apples and potatoes, and some condiments that seemed almost sure to never expire. You kept the fridge at just above freezing, presumably so everything would last longer. You had several half gallons of milk in the freezer, and we thawed them once in a while, but I knew we couldn't use them up too quickly.

I pulled out a small baking pan – the one you had used for the apple bread the first night I was here.

“Zayn, where did you really get the recipe for the apple bread you made that first night?”

“I already told you – online.”

“Yeah, but I thought maybe you had broken into my house and stolen it. Or maybe you got it from one of my relatives.”

You came over and said something that made me laugh harder than I had in the whole time I'd been with you. “What do you think I am, some kind of stalker?”

Then you laughed with me and then you pulled me in for another hug. It felt so good to be pressed close to you like that.

“I'm going to make dinner,” I announced. “So, you just relax and wait, okay?”

You smiled and you went to sit by the fire. Pretty soon, though you stood up and started stoking the fire. That was one thing I noticed about you – you never seemed to sit still for very long. You were always doing something – keeping the fire going, fishing, preparing fish, bringing wood in for the fire.

I made a chicken and rice casserole and once I had put it in the oven to bake, I went to the book closet. That's what I called it anyway. It held other things besides books, but your collection was quite large, so it seemed proper. I scanned them until my eyes rested upon a book of poetry. I excitedly pulled it off the shelf and placed it on the coffee table until after dinner.

It wasn't long before the food was ready since instant rice cooked rather quickly. I set our places at the bar and then I set out some napkins and silverware. I had seen a small collection of wine bottles at the bottom of the pantry, so I asked, “Can we have some wine with dinner?”

“Sure,” you grinned.

I pulled out a bottle and dug around for a wine opener, which I had seen not too long ago. It felt a little funny to pour the wine into the tin cups you had, but I didn't let it bother me too much.

When all was ready, I called you over and we dug in. I watched you take a bite of the chicken and rice casserole and your eyes lit up.

“This is really good."

“Thank you,” I smiled. Then I raised the cup of wine and made a toast, “To friends.”

The smile on your face was wider than I'd ever seen it.

After we'd cleaned up dinner, I poured more wine and asked you to come and sit on the loveseat. I pulled a blanket over us, hand you a cup of wine and then I grabbed the poetry book.

“So, I've gathered from your journal that you enjoy poetry,” I told you.

And you actually blushed.

“Why does that embarrass you?” I asked.

You simply stated, “It's not very manly.”

“Sure it is. Just because the words are pretty doesn't mean it's a feminine art.”

I opened the book and browsed to see if I could find one of my favorites. I found an old Longfellow poem that I had always liked, even though it told a tragic tale. I began reading in a dramatic voice:

“The Wreck of the Hesperus by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

It was the schooner Hesperus,
That sailed the wintry sea;
And the skipper had taken his little daughter
To bear him company.

Blue were her eyes as the fairy-flax,
Her cheeks like the dawn of day,
And her bosom white as the hawthorn buds,
That ope in the month of May.

The skipper he stood beside the helm,
His pipe was in his mouth,
And he watched how the veering flaw did blow
The smoke now West, now South.

Then up and spake an old Sailor
Had sailed to the Spanish Main,
"I pray thee, put into yonder port,
For I fear a hurricane” 

I loved this poem and I could see in your eyes that you were mesmerized as I read it, unfolding the tragic tale of the young girl and her father lost at sea. I came to the part where the sea captain binds his daughter to a mast to prevent her from being washed overboard, and you gasped in surprise as I read. 

“He wrapped her warm in his seaman's coat
Against the stinging blast;
He cut a rope from a broken spar,
And bound her to the mast.

"O father! I hear the church-bells ring,
Oh say, what may it be?"
"'T is a fog-bell on a rock-bound coast!" —
And he steered for the open sea.

"O father! I hear the sound of guns,
Oh say, what may it be?"
"Some ship in distress, that cannot live
In such an angry sea!"

"O father! I see a gleaming light,
Oh say, what may it be?"
But the father answered never a word,
A frozen corpse was he."

And as I read the final stanzas, your eyes were so riveted to my mouth, as if you couldn't comprehend the beauty or the horror of the words.

“At daybreak, on the bleak sea-beach,
A fisherman stood aghast,
To see the form of a maiden fair,
Lashed close to a drifting mast.

The salt sea was frozen on her breast,
The salt tears in her eyes;
And he saw her hair, like the brown sea-weed,
On the billows fall and rise.

Such was the wreck of the Hesperus,
In the midnight and the snow!
Christ save us all from a death like this,
On the reef of Norman's Woe!”

You looked at me as I finished the rather long poem and then you said, “It's so sad.”

“Yes, but it's beautiful, don't you think?”

“Death isn't beautiful."

“No, I suppose it isn't,” I replied. “You pick something,” I said, handing you the book.

You searched until it seemed you found what you were looking for. And you began to read, lending your voice and it's charming accent to the poem.

“Stopping By Woods On a Snowy Evening by Robert Frost 

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound’s the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep”

“I've always liked that one,” I told you. “It's kind of like us, here in this cabin on this snowy evening.” 

You poured another cup of wine for both of us and we continued reading, imagining the personalities of the poets and wondering whether we'd be friends with them or if they would be locked up in a mental institution.

You read this poem and we both laughed for a long while afterward, neither one of us really knowing why.

“A Drinking Song by William Butler Yeats 

Wine comes in at the mouth
And love comes in at the eye;
That’s all we shall know for truth
Before we grow old and die.
I lift the glass to my mouth,
I look at you, and I sigh.” 

“I guess we're both a couple of sappy, hopeless romantics,” I said once I caught my breath.

“That's not such a bad thing, is it?” You asked, putting the book aside and leaning closer to me.

“No,” I said, blushing. Maybe it was from the wine, but it was more likely that your closeness to me sent shivers up my spine.

Then you reached your hand up to my cheek and slid your rough fingers across my skin. You tucked your hand in behind my ear and you pulled me closer, pressing your lips to mine. I think I let out a small whimper because you tasted so wonderful, sweet like the wine we'd been drinking, but there was something more to your taste that was uniquely you. You kept your mouth pressed firmly to mine, not harshly, but I couldn't have easily pulled away if I had wanted to. And I didn't want to.

When you ended the kiss, you pulled me close to you and I leaned my head against your chest. I could hear your heart beating.

I couldn't understand what was happening. It made absolutely no sense if I looked at the circumstances. If I didn't know better, I would think I was falling in love.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

River discovered that the cabin is near Churchill, Manitoba, which is about 800 miles north of River's hometown of Grand Forks, ND. The cabin is situated along the Churchill River, where they caught the fish. There is forest, but it is bordering on a small stretch of tundra. So, River was correct in assuming they were near the tundra, but not as far north as she had once thought. 

Credit for the poetry goes to the original poets or to whomever holds the copyrights, although I assume at this point, that they are public domain. "The Wreck of the Hesperus" is one of my favorites.