In the Mysterious Distance

The sunset makes the darkening sky blush and adds rose highlights to the emerald water. A young couple, a man and a woman, perhaps in their early twenties, tanned and trim, golden-skinned in their bathing suits, have their beach blankets spread on the white sand. They sit close together, facing the sea and the sunset.

In a three-story beachfront house, an elderly couple are on the balcony outside the second floor. They are sharing a bottle of white wine, crisp and cold in the warm air.

“Like Adam and Eve,” the husband says. "Don't you think?"

The wife smiles. “They look blissful down there. So young.”

“Doesn’t it remind you?”

“It’s like yesterday,” she says.

“And a million years ago.”

“That too.” 

“So much time has passed, and still …”

“I know.” She reaches out to hold his blue-veined, wrinkled hand. She squeezes, then lets go, sighs, contented. “The sunset is beautiful, just like it was the day we met.”

“Soak it up. Take the heat from the sun,” he says. “Let it heal you, like in that book we just read, by, oh, what’s his name?”

“Ishiguro.”

“That’s right. It worked for the little girl. The sun healed her.”

“Oh, honey.”

“I’m not giving up on a miracle drug.”

“You never give up,” she says. “I love you for that.”

“We’re gonna break the monster’s back,” he says. “Believe it.”

“It’s hard to believe.“

“I know.”

"You're the one who prays," she says. "I do too, in my way. But now I’m one step closer to knowing. It’s so beautiful here. It’s perfect. Right now. This moment. This is a good moment.”

“Yes, it's perfect,” he says. ”A perfect moment. Let’s stop time. Freeze everything in place with the sun right where it is, barely touching the horizon, the warm breeze, everything just so.” 

"I have to tell you." She takes a sip of the cold white wine. “I feel that I’m getting ready to leave the ground.”

He is quiet for a long time, then: “I don’t know if I can take it.”

She says nothing, sets the wineglass down on the small table between them, reaches out and squeezes his hand again, and this time she holds on. 

Until she doesn’t. 

He knows it has happened. No more pain. That’s good. That part is good. There has been so much pain. But the other part ...

He’s not ready to look over at her, to have it be final and real, so he closes his eyes, feels the warm rays of the setting sun on his face, drifts off while thinking about her, and lines from a song come to him: 'A house doesn't make a home, don't leave me here alone.'

Then, she is there, and he feels her familiar lips on his. 

He opens his eyes.

“You,” he says.

“Me.” She smiles. "Hi."

She looks just like the day they met, more than seventy years ago, when they were both in their twenties. 

He sits up, looks at her, drinks her in. Then he notices his own tanned skin, his trim shape, the energy of youth, the beach blanket, the warm sand. 

“Like Adam and Eve,” she says. “It was us, down here, waiting, for when we were ready to let go.”

He turns and looks back at their beach house, to the balcony on the second floor, where he can make out their old skin and bones, empty.

“I prayed for this,” he says. ”That we would go together. It’s perfect.”

“It’s even better than a miracle drug.” She smiles, stands up, holds out her hand. He takes it, gets up, and they both stand together, looking out towards the sunset at the horizon, arms around each other. 

"The water looks fine," he says. 

"Let's go in."

They wade into the shallows, the cool water lapping their ankles, then their shins.

"What's this?" She reaches down, bringing up a seashell, water dripping. The shell cracks open in her hand. A soft light illuminates her face. She gasps. "Oh, I didn't remember."

"What is it?"

"Can't you see?"

"No."

"It's something from my early childhood," she says. "I'd forgotten all about it. You really can't see? For me, it's like I'm there, living it all again."

He finds a seashell of his own. 

"You're right," he says. "It's like being there, in the moment."

"But you can't see mine," she says, "and I can't see yours."

"I can tell you about it," he says.

"If you want to."

"I think that's the point," he says. "If we want to, we can share. When we're ready."

"Leaving a bit of mystery."

"Yes, and space. The mysterious distance that makes life together an act of discovery. It reminds me of something from that book your mom gave us at our wedding."

"Oh, yes. Gibran: 'But let there be spaces in your togetherness.'" 

"I wonder if ... " He looks around, selects a larger seashell, bright white, fishing it out of the seabed. When it cracks open, they both gasp. 

Afterwards he says. "What a wonderful memory, our wedding day."

"And to think of all that happened after, all the time we had together."

"Seventy years, and then some. And now, we get more time together."

"Eternity."

"Just us."

"For now," she says. "I have a feeling, when we're ready, there will be others. Family, friends."

"God."

"I think He is always here."

"I wonder," he says. "If we will see God, face to face."

"When we're ready."

"I want to try something." He lifts one leg out of the water, plants his foot on the surface, then steps up, standing on the sea. He holds out his hand, and she joins him. 

Together, they walk on the sea, hand in hand, towards the horizon, in the direction of the sun.

"I'm thinking about what you said."

"When?" she says.

"Right before."

"Oh."

"You said: 'I'm getting ready to leave the ground'. I wonder if we can fly."

"I'm sure we can," she says. "I think anything is possible for us now. But if you don't mind, I'm having such a lovely walk, let's keep enjoying this for a while."

"For as long as you want."

"And then, when we're ready — let's fly!"