There was this river that ran through the side of the house. There were lilacs, grown and cared for by the commune, there were flowers, unknown flowers, native to this part of the country, and there were honeysuckle bushes, climbing on the side of the stone walls. There was a small door, painted light blue, when you opened it, it took you to the dark basement, there was an old well at the center of the basement ground, now covered by a large wooden door that got taken out from this house, presumably as part of the renovation by the previous owner, the Englishman. The well, from what I heard, still had running water underneath. I was afraid of opening the wooden door, to look into the well.
When I was young, there was a well too, in the courtyard where I lived with my grandparents, and we’d fetch fresh water from it. That was the far east. This was the French countryside.
There were rose bushes climbing on the side of the garage, now converted into a work shop, with tools for the garden stored, and winter wood. A Polish family lived not far from the town, and they delivered wood during the winter to heat up the house. Burgundy slabs were sought after building materials these days, this house had stairs made of Burgundy stone slabs, polished and worn. There were also natural oaks flooring in the living room, painted dark brown. The exposed wooden beams seemed to have seen better days, but it looked natural with those French windows. Are those called French windows or just windows? After all, this was France, Burgundy, to be exact, which was 200 kilometers southeast of Paris, a touristy town by Canal Nivernais, I had sailed in that canal before - it was how I came to know this part of the region.
The house was built on the side of the canal, the front of the house faced the meadow, across the meadow is the canal; a river ran through it, the back of the house faced the upper garden. The side of the house opened to a green lawn and flowering trees. Apples and pear trees grown in the upper garden, along with another shed that stored more wood. Oil heating was rather expensive. The house was filled with wooden antique stoves that were used to heat up the house. Each room had one, or it seemed.
Burgundy cherries were famous. I felt that it needed a cherry tree, in the front of the house. I should plant one.
There were four bedrooms, and two bathrooms. I wanted to build a wine cellar in the basement, and convert the attic, so that we could use it if we ever needed it.
We met too late. Don’t you think? We met when I was no longer a kid, you no longer free. We met a little too late but there was this weird feeling best explained as love flowing around the air for a while. I was convinced I made all of that up, I kept on thinking as time went on, we’d realize this was a mistake, and you’d move on, and I’d forget about you.
This was a silly episode. When I found this place, this beautiful, remote rose bush filled ancient stone house in another continent, I found my home but my worst fear came true. I still loved you. I could run away, move away but I still needed you. You couldn’t possibly know this, you must not know this. You mustn’t. I must keep what I feel to myself and eventually everything would fade away.
You never existed in my life, and I never existed in yours.
We must not talk about this, we must not remember this. You must leave me because I could not tear myself away from you. You came into my life to teach me that I could still love again. I was scared of loving you. I was scare of love. But when I did love, I couldn't be myself again. I was devastated, by my sorrow, weakness, and my lack of control of emotions.
Love, came too late. It was too late for you or for me.
We must part ways, and I'd eventually believe that you never existed in my life.
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