Jeannie: 54 years and 10 days not long enough

An excerpt from Jim’s above-titled book. See Editor’s Note below.

When we were young, as together we once were, there came times when passions ran wild. I liken it to the two of us racing up a hill to get to the top of a giant slide on which we would plummet down at breathtaking and exhilarating speed, deposited at the bottom drained for the moment but before long ready to race up the hill again.

Later when not quite so young, we learned to climb the hill by a path leading through fields of clover and fragrant flowers and along a babbling stream; a path that reached the summit where the grass was green and lush and the songbirds sang. A place to enjoy the view and feel the soft breeze on our skin before mounting the last few steps to the top of the slide. We followed this path many times, taking in the delightful sights, sounds and aromas encountered along the way. But this time was different and so very, very special.

Although it was time for sleep and the last of the afterglow was fading from the sky, Jeannie and I slowly moved toward the entrance to the path up the hill. Guided by an unseen hand, she was leading me as I was leading her. Even in the deepening darkness we had no trouble making our way along the path that was soft and smooth as it wound gently upward. We knew it so well that even in the dark we were able to avoid the few roots and rocks that could cause one to stumble and fall. We stopped along the way and held each other close, talking quietly about what we knew lay ahead. We were in no hurry.

Time drifted past but we paid it no mind. The roses and wildflowers smelled sweeter than ever. A cool zephyr, fluttering the leaves and waving the grass, stroked our skin as we turned our faces into it. And as we contemplated how much further along the path our stroll might take us, we laughed the kind of laugh only two people so deeply in love could laugh.

Each bend and turn in the path was both familiar and new: familiar because we had walked, jogged, or raced up this path hundreds of times before; and new because we were now taking it all in with heightened senses and without any urgency to get to the top.

As we drew near the end of the path, it opened to a moonlit expanse of verdant grass. There we found a blanket spread next to a low table holding wine and a selection of our favorite treats. We were at the summit with a panoramic view that seemed to stretch into eternity. We took rest on the blanket, drinking in both the wine and the sights from this magnificent vista. On the far side of the feast-laden table rose the stairway to the slide. If we made it up that stairway, fine. If not, also fine. We were together on this journey, this splendid, magical journey that didn’t end until the faint light of dawn appeared and we drifted off to sleep in each other’s arms – at the bottom of the slide.

Copyright © 2023 by JAMES BROWN

Editor’s note: Jim came to our writing group, The Village Writers, in Rathdrum, Idaho while he was finishing his book about his beloved wife Jeannie. He recently mailed me the finished love story. He ended the book with this excerpt from the last chapter “Hospice” which he had read to our writing group. He said in the book as his wife’s life was fading: “The rest of the story must be told metaphorically.” (Brown, James. “Jeannie: 54 Years and 10 days not long enough” (2023). Available on Amazon.)