The Cottage

Suitcase in hand, you walked to the station, head tipped firmly down. The rain ran off the brim of your hat, a sheet across the front of your face. You stared at the ground, pretending that you didn’t see it, pretending that you couldn’t hear her voice in the back of your head scolding you for ruining your nice new shoes in all this wet. A gentle, bittersweet smile found its way to your lips as you could hear the concern in her voice- not for you, you’d made your mistake, but for the floors that she’d just cleaned and the work that she would have to do to rectify your mistake. 

The door slammed heavily against your shoulder, loudly catching on your bag, sending it spinning into the back of your leg as you push into the dimly lit station. It had been busy once- now it’s falling into disrepair. Back in her days she had been the center of activity for your sleepy little town. There had been people coming and going at all hours of the day, staring anxiously at their papers and angrily waiting for whatever came next to take them to wherever they were going. Now, it was just one of those sad in- between places, those places that seemed almost dropped out of time. The walls stood, empty and silent. Your tired gaze swept back and forth, your eyes catching on the ghosts of memories that took the place of actual life. 

That right there, those benches, that was where you always sat when you waited for her to come in off the train. You would get food, even if you weren’t hungry it was still good to support the local businesses, from one of those vendors over there. What a shame, you think. What a shame they now stand empty. It all looked so much smaller than you had remembered without all the people hustling about to fill everything with their life and their noise. 

You make your way to your platform, her platform. You could find your way there with your eyes closed. In the dark. In a storm much worse than this one. It wouldn’t matter. Even if you were going somewhere else, you were sure that you would end up here, your feet on the worn tile just as they had always been, just as they had familiarly shuffled with that nervous anticipation that comes when you’re waiting on someone that you haven’t seen in what feels like years, even if it was only a few days. Standing there, you wait. The train will come. It always does. Still, without anyone around but the bored teenager sleeping in the booth, dead to the world, it’s easy for one to start to wonder….

Your breath catches in your throat as you see the sleepy lights come up the tunnel. They should have gotten a new train. That was when the people started to leave. Instead of fixing the train that they had, they built a new one in a better part of town. It was undoubtedly nicer, and faster, and cleaner. However, you liked this one. It was still special. Besides, it did everything that you needed it to do, so why would you switch? 

It pulls to a halt in front of you, the doors slowly sliding open like it hurts them, exposing another, somehow more dimly lit interior. Settling into sticky seats, your suitcase nestled between your feet, you are braced for the upcoming jolt of the train as it slowly heaves itself into motion, a behemoth lurching one step closer to retirement. You try not to lean back, knowing that the cracked leather holds within it years and years of sticky secrets that you don’t want to take with you in the fabric of your clothing. sitting erect, you watch the scenery slowly trudge by the windows, old and familiar. the seasons have changed those old trees and hills but their bones have remained the same and so familiar to you. 

The slow crawl of the grass past the train lulls you into a sort of dreamlike state. She used to make this journey all the time. She used to come this way, sit in one of these seats. She used to sit with a book in her lap, her suitcase tucked between her feet much like yours is between your old, worn boots now. She used to hold the book anxiously between her hands, rubbing at the covers without opening them, wearing the corners until they curled, watching the same trees and hills, although they were younger then. They hadn’t seen so much life. Now you sit there, where she had sat, watching the trees. They seem like old friends to you. You’ve seen too much life, you both have. 

The laborious screech of the slowing wheels on the track drag you back to reality, like having your head pulled sharply out of a bucket of water. Hand settling into the worn grooves in the leather, you ease yourself up out of the seat, the lift not as easy on your knees as it used to be. Following the screech of the doors, you step out onto another familiar platform- equally dead, slightly less familiar, still full of memories. You let yourself out, dragging your bag and your old bones up the path and away. The trek used to be nothing for you, just a nice breath of fresh air to fill your lungs before you finished your journey, but now it’s exhausting. It’s painful. It’s almost more than you can handle. Still, you enjoy the wind on your face as much as you can, stopping when you have to, gazing out across the wide expanses of hills and grass and farmhouse that dot the lonely countryside. Strangely, it doesn’t look all that lonely from up here. 

It was a small cottage. She had loved it so much. It had been the first house that she had ever bought, and she had been so excited to put her name on the lease. At the time, it had been a little more than she could afford, but she moved money around so that she could make it work. That was why she had been so reluctant to move out. She had known that it was the logical decision, the go to the bigger house in the more central location, the one with the schools that were actually reachable, but she just couldn’t let it go. She simply loved it. You had promised her that one day, when the time was right, when the kids were older, when retirement was an option, you would take her back there. That was why you kept it after all this time, even when it didn’t really make sense. However, in the words of Woody Allen, “If you want to make God laugh, tell Him your plans”. She never made it to retirement. She never got to live in her little cottage again. You never got to watch her stand in the center of that kitchen and smile contentedly at all that was hers. 

After she was gone, you could feel her presence everywhere. It was a thick, heavy loss that radiated through every room of the house, through every activity, through every minute of every day. The kids were gone off to live their lives, the fragments of her that lived within them gone too, and it wasn’t fair of you to ask them to come back just to see her again. Eventually, you couldn’t take it anymore. You got up from the table, food still cooling in front of your abandoned chair, and you walked out your front door, leaving it unlocked behind you. You walked until you found yourself waiting on her platform. You sat on her seat on the train. You walked up her path. You stood on the threshold of her old cottage. She had never let it fall into disrepair. She had wanted it kept nice for whenever the day came that she got to move back in. Somehow, in your flight, you had grabbed the key from it’s hook by your door and let yourself in. 

The rooms all smelled like her. They were set in her styles. They were the colors that she had picked, the furniture that she had liked. The rooms reeked of her. You could almost hear her, humming to herself amongst the china in the next room, sense her in the place that she had loved the most. You dropped to your knees and wept, there, in the open door, letting out the air that she had breathed into the chill, evening sky. 

Every day that week you had gone back, then fewer the week after, tapering to once a year, not wanting the cottage to lose her smell, lose her feel. You didn’t want the little house to lose that feeling that she was there, just slightly out of sight. You counted the days, waiting until you would stand on that platform, make that journey again but a year older, stand there where she had stood and loved so vividly, and be with her but not with her. 

This year, however, felt different. You knew, somewhere deep in your old, tired bones, that there would not be a next year. There would not be another trip. There would not be a return journey. This would be the last that you would stand on the platform. This would be the last that you would make the trek. This would be the last that you would stand in the threshold. So, you packed a bag. If this was to be the last, you weren’t coming back. She had wanted to spend her last days in the cottage and you would fulfill her wishes. The wood felt cool under your palm as your hand slid down the doorframe. She had been right to wish this. This was the right ending to your story. You only wished that she had been here to end it with you. 

Pushing into the little building, you set your bag down. Your old joints had been screaming to sit, to stop for just a moment, but here they were silent. They were at peace. You could feel her close by. She was in the room with the china. If only-

There she was, smiling in the doorway, looking just as young as the day she had first shown you the place, her dark hair curling over her shoulders. You recognized the sundress she was wearing- her favorite one, with the sun- stained, checkered pattern that used to be gingham. She didn’t have to say anything, you were already in motion, blundering your way towards her on legs that felt weak and frail compared to her young frame. Her hand was outstretched. You took it, marveling at her young palm against your old, weathered one, the nothing and everything that separated you. You would follow her wherever she wanted to go. You would follow her to the ends of the earth.