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In Time
AUTHOR'S NOTES - I love to people watch in any circumstance or surroundings. People are interesting, they all have their secrets and stories to tell and I got to thinking just how much Scully's mask might slip when she is away from those who know her. Thanks to Meg for a quick beta. :-) I suppose that way back in my youth, oh...twenty or thirty years ago now, I could never have had the luxury of just sitting and watching. But now, in what are supposedly my autumn years, it seems as though time is something I have in abundance. Gone are the days when it seemed like luxury to be able to sleep in until the sun was high in the sky. Days, many years ago when all my energies were concentrated on raising my children to be fine, upstanding citizens and which left little time for anything else. It's ironic I think, that finally, now that those same children have flown away to raise children of their own, I have all the time in the world and no constructive idea as to how to use it. I suppose I could join a women's guild somewhere. Take my place amongst those like me who are frantically finding ways to add interest to their lives, grasping at anything...*anything* to keep the days from rolling and merging in to one. Not for me, though. I'm happy enough. I have five beautiful grandchildren and a family that loves and needs me. Not in the way they needed me once, of course, but I take what I can get and they offer me much. But most days I am left to my own devices and I often find myself drifting here. Spending time by his graveside as I chat softly to him, spending time beside him that in the beginning, when he was first taken from me so many years ago, I just wasn't able to do. Now though, I am more at peace with myself. I am able to accept the fact of his violent death, of the way he was cruelly snatched away from me at a time when he still had so much to give. I can accept the injustice of it now in a way I never could before. I had almost forgotten how I felt the first time I visited his grave all those years ago, clutching roses in my hand so tightly that the thorns had pierced my skin and my blood had dripped slowly on to the smooth grass below as I just stood there, unable to move, unable to speak. Unable to say all the things to him I wished I'd said when he was still with me. The memory was hazy, unreal even. Time is a great healer. Or so I thought until the day I first saw her when I realised that time doesn't ever heal us completely. It just softens the hurt. She had entered the peripherals of my vision unexpectedly. And just for a second, as I observed the stark whiteness of her skin, I wondered if she was some kind of ethereal spirit. Haunting this place that, no matter how beautiful it might be, was a place of the dead. A place full of sorrow, of heartache and of yearning for things that will never be. But as she came closer I realised that she was indeed very much alive. Or at least some version thereof. She passed right by me, never looking up, never meeting my eyes as her gaze remained locked on something in the distance ahead of her. I followed her with my eyes, not really wishing to intrude, but something in her face drew me to her in a way I haven't felt drawn to someone in years. I watched her progress for a few seconds until she finally came to a halt in front of a plot I'd never really noticed before. The stone gleamed grey-white in the sunshine, hurting my eyes with it's obvious newness and I wondered just who she had lost. Husband? Lover? Relative? Friend? All of those things? It was irrelevant really, a fleeting thought as I realised that it didn't matter. Loss is loss whichever way you look at it. And it became obvious as I discreetly watched her standing before the grave, that her loss was eating her up inside. Her posture was rigid, reminding me of myself when I first began to force myself to come here. To confront my own demons, to lay the one I loved to rest. I could see the flowers she held in her hand. Not roses, but a mixture of gardenias and carnations all bound together with white, satin ribbon. I could see the way she clutched them in her fist, crushing the delicate stems. No thorns for her. I suspect her thorns are on the inside. That she bleeds from her heart where no one can observe her pain. It was difficult to be sure - my eyes aren't what they used to be - but I could imagine the expression on her face. Where my eyesight failed me, my memory filled in the gaps. Because it was like watching a younger version of myself. Not in looks, of course. This woman was delicate, tiny, fragile looking although it was obvious to me as she had passed me by that she was pregnant. Nurturing a tiny new life inside of her that surely must be feeling her grief and I wondered fleetingly if she was taking care of herself. I guess she was around five months along, although it was difficult to tell exactly because unlike all the other pregnant women I have seen, there wasn't an inch of spare flesh on her. Even from a distance I could see how gaunt she was. The sharp contours of her face as she just stood, head bowed slightly as she stood before that grave. One hand rested on the tight, round swell of her belly, perhaps trying to protect her baby from the sadness that seemed to radiate from her. It was a beautiful day the first time I saw her. The sunlight bounced off her hair, turning it into fire before me but somehow the vibrant color seemed out of place against the whiteness of her skin. Against the darkness that surrounded her. I was transfixed by her as she stood there. A picture of stillness. Of hurt. Of betrayal as she stared at that grave with what must have been empty eyes and an even emptier heart. Her pain radiated towards me and I felt my throat close up as I felt the tears well up in my own eyes. I've never cried for a stranger before, but something about the way she just stood, silent and still, brought a thousand memories flooding back and her grief was impossible to ignore. I wished I could cross over to her, to take her in my arms and cry with her. Two strangers inexplicably linked together in their sadness. I wished I could have told her that in time it would get easier. That time is a great healer. But I know how hollow those words would sound. Just as they had sounded so hollow to me years ago when misguided friends had tried to offer me comfort. Because we are never really healed. We just learn to accept our losses and carry on. I pray that it will be that way for her. She never did release those flowers she was holding and after a few minutes she left. Passing me by once again, eyes blank and empty, oblivious to everything around her, she never noticed me sitting there, on the small wooden bench that affords me an obstructed view of my late husband's grave. I had wished then that she might make some kind of contact with me, to allow our eyes to meet so I might offer her some small comfort. A smile that might lift some of the darkness from her heart. Comfort from a stranger who has been where she is and lived through it. But she didn't. She couldn't. She didn't even notice I was there. The sky could have fallen in on her and she would have carried on by. I've seen her several times since that first day. I try not to stare, but it's difficult not to. I still harbour a secret hope that one day, she will pause in front of me and allow me to help her in ways I suspect she refuses anyone else. So I can tell her that it will get better. That everything always does. In time, that is. End |
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