Autumnal Days

A shiver. Vera looked down at her hand-painted floral-decorated plate; only the crumbs of the short-crust pastry of the apple pie remained. She brought her fingertip to her tongue and, after licking it, pressed it into the remnants of her dessert, capturing them, not wanting to waste. She settled into her rocking chair.

“Another summer gone, Sylvia,” she said. “Do you remember when we would drive up to Clara’s cabin mid-winter, when we made that makeshift sauna, where it was so smoky…”

“Yes, we ended up staggering out and collapsing in the snow from our design failure and wound up even colder than when we started.”

“And the time the teepee caught alight. Not much of an attempt at a sauna.”

The woman laughed and rocked.

“And, and when we lit the fire in the cabin at the start of winter without checking the chimney first.”

More laughter.

“Maintenance wasn’t Clara’s strong point, was it?” suggested Sylvia and after a pause, added, “I miss her.”

“Me too,” said Vera. “Me too.” She placed her empty platter on the small stand beside her and sipped from a self-painted ceramic coffee mug.

Sylvia slid her finger across her dish and captured the last of the whipped cream. She laid her fork and plate on the side table before inserting her hands inside her shawl and stared out over the autumnal leaf-littered garden. “Clara was invariably so full of life,” she said. “I needed her energy. There was perpetual laughter when she was around.”

“Clara always saw the funniness in things.”

“That she did,” agreed Sylvia, and then added. “I regret now that I did not join her on some of her travels.”

“Really?” Vera glanced across in surprise. “You never said. You could have chosen to go, you know. I would have tended the animals for you. Except I wouldn’t have weeded your vegie patch - not that.”

“No, I can’t blame the dogs and chickens. It was me. I just wasn’t courageous enough.”

Vera peered down at her mug and the absence of warm liquid coffee, only the dregs. “What is the point of self-reproach at our time of life? It’s not as if we possess the time to learn, to make amendments, to be brave. Today, bravery for me is getting behind the wheel of the car and hoping everyone will get the hell out of my way.”

“Maybe. I don’t know; maybe it’s not the emotions from disappointments or regrets, rather a void of dreams, whittled down to a wondering of how we got to where we are. I mean, I am not surprised that I find myself sitting, rocking on this porch as my mother had done, but I did not expect you to be here still, in this small town. You used to be so determined. So, adamant.”

When Vera did not respond, Sylvia inquired, “What happened to the guy who was sweet on you after you returned from university? What was his name? You know, the shy one, he always wore those big owl glasses as if he was trying to hide behind them. Mallory. That’s right. Mallory the engineer. Terribly clever. Sent to our out-of-the-way town by his firm, I recall. So out of place when he first arrived, wasn’t he? He asked you out more than once. I thought he was very handsome. Quite the catch. I would not have refused him. How did his life pan out, I wonder?”

“They appointed him CEO of the company. Made a lot of money and retired a while back.”

It was Sylvia’s turn to act surprised. “You kept in touch?”

“He was in the newspapers, occasionally on TV. After his wife died, his children having left home, he looked me up and came visiting.”

“Wow, you never told me. When was that?”

“About two years ago.”

“And, and what happened? I mean, it’s a long way to come; we are a long way from anywhere. What did he say to you?”

Vera’s gaze had turned inward as if unseeing yet seeing too much. “He hadn’t really changed,” she said, the tone of her voice telling. “Hair thinning, still the lanky body shape, different glasses though. Perhaps his wife had seen to that, or the children. Dignified.”

“But why did he visit you after all this time?”

“Oh, he always sent me a card at Christmas, even after Christmas cards were a thing of the past. Not much room on a card, but it meant we stayed in touch. It was as if I watched his children grow. No, no, Sylvia, I really don’t want to talk about it.”

Sylvia rocked in the silence before reflecting, “Regret is a peculiar emotion…”

“I am not sure that it is regret,” cut in Vera. “Anyway, regret serves no purpose, a fruitless endeavour. Can you see me with children?”

“I saw you with my children,” responded Sylvia, staring straight ahead. She continued, “Emotions can pierce like a sting, or they can fester, lingering for long periods, leading to an undignified autumn of our current selves. I was never one for longing after impossible things—on the whole, I was satisfied. I was content with what I had. Over the years, I’ve witnessed the discontent of people whose nostalgia for what never was dragged them down—a disappointment at not being someone else. I suppose I was fortunate to have avoided that. I tried to live a full life, not in muted tones.”

“That’s because you lived your days with your heart – unafraid.”

“I suppose I did, but only to a certain extent,” replied Sylvia. “I always recognised that life was something I would always be obliged to give back. I was constantly conscious of that. The garden’s seasons, the brief lives of dogs — I would need to learn to endure. Clayton would go first, or I would – it turns out it was him. Pray not the children though, not before me. I don’t think I could cope with that. Knowing life would be taken from me at some point, I nonetheless chose to embrace it. Don’t shy away from the joy because of the hurt because amongst the hurt there is still life - love, friendship, laughter, dinner to be put on the table, gardens to be weeded. The hurt was inevitably going to be a part of that – but a small part. And the memories. Those needed to outweigh the regrets, right?”

“You were always the optimist, the motherly one, the person ready to kiss and hug and attempt to make it alright. Regrets, okay, you are only allowed one regret. One regret that sums up all your regrets. And don’t mention your kids. What is it?”

Sylvia puckered her lips and sucked as she habitually did when pondering. After a while she said, “Yesterday I popped into the library to see the school students’ photographic competition. I sometimes enjoy viewing the world through their eyes, so full of wonder and hope, and one particular collage struck me, six photographs in all – still-life’s. The child had taken them while in her backyard. There was one photo of a flower, blood red, but with a halo, the sun being captured behind it, not glary, not detracting from it, but encasing the flower for the eye to focus on its - its exquisiteness. Another image was of a cluster of apples on their tree, in their prime, huddled, boastful, blushed in pink. But the image that got me thinking was the photo of the old fences. Not so much a boundary as a statement - this is the place, here marks the place. We are here. Shot in the afternoon, with sunlight streaming from behind the photographer, the fence stood proud, anchored in too-long grass, slightly lopsided. The white paint was peeling, the worn majesty of the aged, weathered wood showing through. One post held a small bird; it wasn’t a focal point, nor significant to the picture unless you paused to consider the scene.

“You regret not taking up photography?”

“What? No, I regret not taking the time to see as the young girl had seen. In my life, I did what was right. I was industrious. I was hardworking. I was a daughter, a mother, a wife, a sister. A friend. Standing in my backyard, I would only observe the fence needed painting, needed propping up. I’d be concerned about sloth. I didn’t pause to observe nature’s grandeur. I didn’t allow myself time to pause, to really behold and appreciate the wonder of life.”

The two rocking chairs rocked, and the porch floorboards emitted their unheard creaks. Autumn leaves, golden brown, rustled before the zephyr, and in the treetop the small birds played and called. The rocking chairs rocked, and after a while, Sylvia asked.

“Do you remember…?”

“I remember.”