Ten years from now, you’re sitting in a big house, all white picket fence and porch swings.
Ten years ago you swore you’d be living in a big city with her by your side but something happened along the way and you watched as those plans disintegrated in the palms of your hands. You watch the sunrise and you watch the sunset and you wonder if she’s somewhere on the other side of the planet like she promised.
“I gotta get out of here,” she said, “it doesn’t matter how I do it or where I go, I’m getting out.”
Twenty years from now, you find your first grey hair. You dutifully have that middle aged panic attack that everyone seems obliged to have and you screw up your eyes and pull it out.
Your life is pretty steady now: good, calm, like you’ve finally figured things out.
“I’m getting old,” you grumble.
And somewhere, at the back of your mind, you wonder if she’s getting old too.
Fifty years from now your hair is like snow (if you have any, that is).
Your walking stick is your new best friend and memories seem to flit in and out of your head like clouds in the sky.
Most days you can’t remember what you had for breakfast or what you’ll have for tea, and some days it’s beginning to hurt to breathe.
It’s on these occasions, when your chest is heavy and you have to sit down, that you remember her. You think how true it is that you don’t forget the people you loved when you were young.
You may not remember yesterday’s weather but you remember the fifty year old summer breeze and complaining about her hair in your face.
“I wonder if she’s happy,” you say, and people mistake it for mindless rambling.
“I hope she found what she was looking for.”