My Diantha

The train wheels beat incessantly against the tracks as they passed over them, the repetitive clicking echoing the scenery beyond the crystal clear windows, where trees passed by in a blur of green that never ceased.

In the same way, the pocket watch in my hand continued, time ticking by with each click of the wheels, each tree we passed.

And far behind, dark hair, billowing dress, soleful eyes watching as the engine pulled me away from the station, one hand holding a hat and windswept ribbons to her head.

Click. Clack. Click. Clack.

Forest gave way to the patchwork of fields that covered the country-side. Wheat, corn, beans. Wheat again. Potatoes. 

Each second passed by as farmers moved through their fields, teams of horses in front of them.

The seat was uncomfortable. Finely finished wood dug into my back, and I shifted, glancing down from the window to check the time. 

Two minutes.

Three minutes.

Four minutes since I had left the station, watching the wind pulling the hair from her braids, meeting her large eyes as she watched me sadly, broken dreams and wishes draining from her gaze as I moved away, replaced with a trickle of regret. I had rested my forehead on the cool glass, looking back at her, her eyes, her regret.

Four minutes since I had left her.

My Diantha.

I had known her since she had been a bashful schoolgirl, huddled in the corner of the school house, barely speaking a word to anyone.

As years passed, I watched as she had transformed into a plucky young lady, confidence in her steps, laughter in her voice as she surrounded herself with friends.

It was a moonlit night, awash with the light of thousands of candles, a party of swirling skirts inside a barn, lively music drumming through my ears, that I approached her, asked her to dance with me.

She accepted.

We spun around the barn wildly among the push and pull of the other dancers, everyone whirling around in one giant kaleidoscope of billowing cloth, laughing voices, and the press of emotions that lingered in every breath.

Dance with me again, she had asked breathlessly as the song ended. And so I did.

The freckles that speckled her nose and cheeks mesmerised me, her large eyes entranced me. I felt my heart swell as we danced, its constant beat drumming against my chest.

Again.

Again.

I don’t know how many times we danced that night. Millions of times it seemed, spinning from star to cloud, from earth back to the sky again as I held her in my arms, her face flush with the light of youth.

Two years later, we got married. I remember fidgeting with my collar as I waited for her to arrive. Family and friends filled the pews of the small church, and my best friend smiled encouragingly beside me.

My life was going to change.

She was a radiant bride, as I knew she would be, all vigor and life accompanying her as she walked calmly down the aisle, her eyes glowing.

Love. That’s the look she gave me, and I returned it joyously. I offered her my arm as she arrived at the front of the church, and I could see the small grin that hid on her composed face as we took our vows.

I do.

Two small words, echoed by the one I loved, and they meant everything to me.

I do.

They were a verbal sign in only two small words that seemed to amplify themselves so all could hear, sung out to the heavens about how much I loved her.

My Diantha.

It was only a month after that I felt my eyes open, the novelty of my bride fading as I worked to feed her, to house her. 

Parties, galas, they were lonely for me now. She spent her time spinning around the room in different arms, led by different hands.

Of course I danced too. But none of those dances were the same as if it were her I led in a spiral around the room. No twenty-seven freckles sprinkled across cheeks and nose. No dark hair, perfectly in place and out of place at the same time. No large eyes, filled with the rainclouds of sadness and the sunbeams of joy. There was none for me now. 

I had always been plain, but I could see it emphasized now as the parties we were invited to became more lavish, foreign to me but familiar to her as she integrated herself with whatever group she chose, her vivality and joviality appealing to all.

I returned home, tired, to see the silver platter in the hall filled with cards, the name of a stranger on each one on a thin line, echoing the distance between who she and I knew. 

There were days when she didn’t have time to speak to me at all, as busy as she was.

When the opportunity came, it didn’t take long for me to accept. I didn’t tell her until after, when it was already confirmed that I would make the journey.

She had protested, of course. It was too long, too far.

I would miss you, she said. But I knew that wasn’t true. She had plenty to keep her busy, to entertain her, without me around.

And if I succeeded, I could get her that house she wanted.

She would be able to host the parties that she so longed to.

I could give her everything that she wished for in those eyes of hers, the ones that I longed would glance at me.

I snapped the pocket watch shut, sighing, and turned away from the blur of trees that passed beyond the panes of glass, looking at the plain wooden interior that surrounded me.

Click. Clack. Click. Clack.

When I returned, we could start again.

Things could improve.

And I could hope that my absence would make her love grow stronger.

Perhaps one day it could equal my love for her.

My Diantha.