The Chrysalisation

I thumbed over the worn edges of the envelope. It was once a pretty envelope. Imprinted in washed shades of pink, water lilies remained faintly visible on the flaking parchment. I lit a candle and by its light I could just make out the handwriting. Much of the letter had already diminished past legibility, but I had memorized each line long ago. 

To Fern,

During the months when the mornings are frosted and the sun falls early, I’d like to know someone’s warmth.

I feel alone. Not as in a mood. As in my perspective of the world. I feel like we are alone by default. We are born alone. We die alone. But while we live, we are given the chance temporarily to be together.

Togetherness is not a position of equilibrium. It is not our state of lowest energy. It requires effort--the constant input of energy. And just as we must all die--our living, breathing, energy-consuming bodies are entropic inevitabilities--we must also eventually be alone. This house is a system that cannot be sustained.

Yet foolishly, I still believe in that word “forever”. I struggle, resist, and hope. I dream of that person who will struggle, resist, and hope alongside me. Until our bodies unravel. Until my lungs can no longer supply the air to say the words “I love you”. Until when, the simple thought of “you” no longer sends electrifying sparks all throughout the neurons and anatomy of my mind. 

Right until the last moment of this temporary “together”.

Let’s just snuggle in this comfortable blanket. Let’s hold hands. Let’s watch movies. While the whole house is asleep, let’s sneak into the kitchen--we’ll share the last slice of your mom’s pumpkin pie. Couldn’t we? From now on, just maybe, and if you wouldn’t mind, spend the long winter of our lives together?

Lily

It was not yet daybreak. I arose early--I had not an hour to lose. As I hurriedly reached into the cupboard and procured a loaf of bread, a large morsel of cheese, and a small jar of jam I had saved for this day, I found it astonishing how valuable an hour remained in face of the years that had passed. I pondered over the word movie. I tried to remember the last one I’d seen before the plagues, but my memories of that time had long been mushed into a cinematic goo lost in the abyss of my mind. 

I wrapped the contents of my picnic in cloth and placed them into the wicker basket crooked over my elbow. By the banks of the Winding River, I’d also stop to collect a bushel of the wildberries that grew there in bursting droves--the seasonality of their blossoming period once confounded me, but I had developed a sense for it. Last month was a winter month, followed by two weeks of fair temperatures in springtime. Last week came pouring rains, but yesterday and the day before gave way to a clear summer sky. I’d kept careful recordings of the weather patterns in my notebook and now I was relatively certain--the scent of a super bloom laced the air and made tantalizing promises of salivating juices bursting from the plump, ripened berries.

I threw on my cloak and laced my boots, the leather smoothly worn after their forty-third consecutive season of use, and scanned again to ensure that I’d secured the shutters to every window--I’d be gone at least two nights. I feared no human intruders, but the blue skies of yesterday bore no indication of the whims of summer’s playful downpours--I could only pray I’d be spared for the duration of my journey. 

I shut the door to the cottage and properly hinged the fence close behind me, as I stepped onto the overgrown pathway that ran along the river’s bank and connected the sparse homes in our sprawled out village--even among the survivors that awoke to a new age while the world around us perished, not many of us remained. Today, I will be visiting Lily. Tonight is the eve of her “chrysalisation”, and come tomorrow she will be born anew.

My footsteps fell silently along the dirt as I listened carefully for the first calls of the dawn chorus. The rollicking chirping of thrushes and doves opened our ensemble, but were soon joined by the rising voices of robins and warblers who came all to make their bold declarations upon the day.

I reached the edge of the village, the last house up the hill on my left belonging to my friend Samuel. I had not seen him since the beginning of his chrysalisation last year. He’s a long-hauler, and would remain in his cocoon until likely the end of our next true autumn. I thought I’d check on him on the way to Lily’s. 

I scampered up the hill to his doorstep. I let myself in as I announced my arrival to no one in particular, but it was common courtesy anyways. I took the hallway to the left and down the stairs to Samuel’s nesting chamber. I opened the sealed wooden door and carefully peeked inside. Within a vibrant membrane that pulsated in gentle pinks, purples, and blues, Samuel floated in a curled up position as he soundly slept within the nourishing fluid.

“Good morning, friend! Happy to see you are well.” I called out to him brightly, and securely shut the door after making my proper greetings. I made my way back to the front of the house and threw open the windows to let sunshine and fresh air in. I dusted his shelves and table and swept away a spider’s web that had formed in the corner there. Then I tended to his plants and noticed in the window Samuel’s azaleas which bore a parched appearance. The yard plants outside had been freshly nourished by the recent rains, but I went to fetch a pail to water the potted azaleas which must’ve watched longingly from their sill as the rains fell around them.

Having finished my tidying, I proceeded again along the path. Looking back up the hill at Samuel’s cottage, the sun shone its first light. As I left the village, I came upon the white birches of the Honeycomb Woods. The sun, now more awoken, saturated the morning foliage and the warm rays sweetened the air that felt crisp against my cheeks. While the passerines and song birds became my first companions of the day, the forest floor came alive with the rustling of bushes as shy critters scampered away at the sound and sight of my passing.

Not long after, I arrived at the Winding River. And it seemed my predictions proved reliable! All along its fertile banks, colorful clusters of wildberry--black berries, blueberries, strawberries, and other berries--engorged the thickets so plentifully that the floor around them lay scattered with their excess. Many of the shy critters were no not so shy at the temptation of this generous feast. I caught sight of squirrels, scurrying chipmunks, and the orange flash of an elusive pair of foxes. I joined them and, after staining my lips in sweet indulgence, I quickly occupied the remaining space of my basket with a scrumptious assortment of berries. I dipped my feet into the water and rested a while. Lily would’ve loved to be here. But so near her chrysalisation, she lacked the stamina to venture very far beyond her bedside. Still, she’d appreciate the gifts I’d soon bring her.

Refreshed, I had to be on my way again if I wanted to arrive before noon as I’d planned. While most of us remained in the village, Lily, being Lily, chose to reside on Morning’s Hill overlooking the Great Pond. She made this decision of course to have a year-round view of the giant water lilies which had given the Great Pond its name and reputation. While the enormous pads lingered over the water through all seasons, during the first month of true summer, the flowers blossomed into bright crowns of pastel orange, cheerful yellow, flirtatious pink, glorious red, and pure white. And every year around this time, Lily undergoes the moment of her chrysalisation. 

I followed the river’s path which fed into the marshlands surrounding the Pond. And before long, I had caught sight of the shingled roof over Lily’s little blue cottage--a small residence that contained her entire living quarters in a single expanded room and the rest of the space devoted to her studio for painting and crafts. While my energy had reached a low so near the end of my journey, at the foot of the hill I found a renewed burst and quickened my pace.

Staggering up the slope, I let out a relieved sigh and wiped the sweat from my brow as I entered the gate past Lily’s little vegetable garden and reached her doorstep. I dusted my boots on the doormat, straightened my shirt, smoothed out the wrinkles in my cloak, and rapped twice against the door.

“Good morning Lily! It’s Fern. Are you awake in there?”

No response came, so I scooted over to her window and peeked inside. Light filtered through the glass, crept across the cozy space of her cottage, and up the wooden frame of Lily’s bedside on the opposite side of the room. From there, the soft rays tickled against the fairness of Lily’s sleeping face.

I let myself in without disturbing her. I unlaced my boots, lay them to the side, and rested the picnic basket on her table. I washed my hands, splashed some water over my tired face, and put the kettle on to prepare some tea. I unpacked some of the contents from the basket and reached into a cupboard for saucers and a tray. I brought these items and a stool to sit by Lily’s bedside.

At the small commotion Lily began to rustle and stir. She let out a long yawn as she winked the sleep from her fluttering eyes. I smiled at her as she noticed my presence and smiled at me in return.

“Oh, it’s you.”

I laughed at her casualness. I had awoken before the first cracks of dawn to visit her and she lazily awoke to my presence as if it were an obvious occurrence. 

“Good morning, Lily.”

“Good morning, Fern.”

“Would you care for a little breakfast? I’ve brought gifts from lands afar, beyond great riverbanks, and tall green forests. Particularly, I present to you the freshest, plumpest berries one can procure, picked myself just this morning while on my way.” 

I held up the tray of bread, cheese, and berries as I exaggerated the length of my trek--truthfully, two hours by foot represented a brisk morning’s exercise rather than an immense journey. Lily lit up at the presentation of breakfast in bed and propped herself up to a sitting position.

“Aww, how sweet of you! May I please?” Lily gestured with open arms as I placed the tray in her lap. I asked her how she was and she admitted being a little spent, but, in all, felt quite well considering the occasion. We finished our breakfast and I put away the used dishes while promising we had surpluses yet to enjoy. The day had reached almost noon and, like usual, we planned to spend the rest of it sat underneath the shady willow outside her cottage overlooking the Great Pond. Lily would sketch in her notebook images of the blossoming flowers bearing her namesake below, while I might discuss the shapes of the clouds above or sing us songs to the strumming of a guitar.  

While Lily washed up, I spread the picnic mat underneath the willow and laid out long comfortable cushions. As I paused momentarily to behold the view, I could hear Lily’s voice calling for me from inside the cottage. I hurriedly went to her.

“Fern! I sincerely apologize, I tried carrying the basket myself and--well, you can see, both myself and the basket are now on the ground.”

I rushed to Lily’s side. While it was true that both she and I and everyone who endured past the plagues enjoyed a form of immortality, our bodies followed cycles of aging, growth, and regrowth. Tonight marked the eve of her chrysalisation. At the present moment, Lily’s hair shined a beautiful silver though her current fortitude was that of a little old lady. In the course of a year, her body experienced change from an adolescent, to a young woman, and then to no longer a young woman. In comparison, I possessed not yet the strength of a fully matured man, but the bursting energy of adolescence. Admittedly, her cycle occurred rapidly in comparison to myself, who only underwent chrysalisation once every few hundred years. But by contrast, she lay dormant for only a single evening compared to the many weeks, months, or sometimes years that others experienced.

“Are you hurt anywhere? Would you not care to lie in bed for the remainder of today?” I asked her with concern, though it seemed the fall was not serious as Lily had already begun to regain her footing with my assistance. I helped her to the sofa and gathered the basket, whose contents fortunately remained intact.

“I am mostly fine now, thank you. And besides, when I awake a beautiful young maiden tomorrow, all my ailments will cease. Shall we enjoy ourselves outside? With your assistance, please.” Lily chuckled to herself as she did in fact state the truth, but still--I swept her underneath my arms and carried her out the front door and into the pleasant sun.

Underneath the shade of the willow tree, we beheld the lush waterscape which glittered from the gold gift of the day. Lily rested her head against my shoulder and I held her hand firmly. I fed her berries and we giggled at our own messiness. I sang us songs from ancient ages past and wrote new ones as my musical whims came and went. Puffy white clouds passed overhead as we watched the sun change position from east to west across the blue sky. In that time, Lily had finished a handful of sketches. She showed them to me.

“Every year, I feel that your talent increases by worthy margins! The perspective you’ve achieved in this landscape mesmerizes. And I adore the portraits you’ve done of the lilies. The softness of your shading impresses against the precision and cleanliness of each line.”

Lily beamed at my praise.

“I feel motivated every year to capture the lilies as I see them now. As you know, while in your case the current image you possess of them is retained in memory, I may only have the sketches to recall the tender emotions I feel now at their sight.”

A tinge of regret lined Lily’s voice. I held her hand firmly again. 

“Do you fear your chrysalisation?”

While Lily did not answer at first, her hand tightening in mine gave her affirmation.

But eventually she confessed. “Indeed. I fear the uncertainty at which tender moments with you I might soon forget. Tomorrow, I will awake as me, but not quite me. As evidenced by times in the past, there have been occasions when I did not recognize even you--my most dearly beloved. Fern, I admit that even after all these many years, I still question whether this ‘immortality’ of mine has been given as a gift or a curse.”

What Lily alluded to was the exchange that occurred at each granting of our renewed youth. It came often at the price of our memories. Their fragmentation. 

She continued in her confession. “Do you ever wonder at the meaning of our survival? Those of us--the ‘forever children’ who numbered not more than thousands out of billions--do you ever question our authenticity? Why were we selected, when so many perished? And then the world left to us had become no more than our playground. What purpose does it serve? Do we serve? And who is God? The spectator of the show? Its puppeteer? I fear that the trees, rivers, birds, foxes, and even you and I are no more than mere decorations in His garden. A garden very similar to that which one keeps in their yard--a mere display.”

Lily faced me in resolute seriousness--the years showing in her face where youthfulness had earlier held stay. Her fears, I and all of us had of course felt them, too--I continued to feel them. But I told her the answer I had reached in my own heart.

“It is true that one might keep a garden in their yard, simply because we wish to observe the flowering and withering of plants, and the coming and going of birds, bees, and other critters. We might desire to observe the perpetual flow of water. But this is my belief: just as the birds come to sing their songs and perform their decorative rituals upon each morning, we humans perform the ritual of falling in love every morning, evening, sunrise, noon, afternoon, dusk, dawn, and sunset. That is our beauty--the beauty that God surely desired as we were created.”

As the sun hung just below the horizon, the masterful artist painting the sky in breathtaking pinks, purples, and indigo, I faced Lily with my own resolution.

I told her, “And if this world is now our garden and falling in love is our beauty, then I will gladly, happily, and eternally fall in love with you, Lily. No matter how many times we may repeat this ritual of exchange, or how many times I must remind you of your importance to me. I will love you, now, always, and forever.”