The Journal's End

This place was different now. And yet the same. It had been a long time, but I still recognized it. The unresting ocean below was still waging its relentless war on the coast. I marveled at the resilience of the timeless cliffs. For unknown ages they had withstood the onslaught. To me, seeing that cliffside again was like the exit sign to home after a long road trip - an invitation to a place to feel at peace. I saw hopeful new saplings clinging with all their might to that rugged landscape, the ever present wind from the west forcing them into an uncomfortable arch. I was like the old trees now. Bent at the waist but happy to be standing. Some were bent so far that their down-facing branches appeared to be so many canes helping to support it. I had my own tree branch for support these days. The trek here was no easy task for this weary body, but hearing the roar as I neared kept me going. I climbed down the last bit of trail and saw it for the first time in many years. There was the rock with the two perfect little indentations and backrests, completely unchanged.

We had found the trail by accident. On the way to a restaurant one afternoon, we both saw it at the same time. Exquisite orange ruffles carpeted the forest floor and grabbed our attention. Chanterelles! Luckily, a singular parking spot was there on the roadside. A moment later and we were wandering down the trail, filling a bag with those delicious delicacies. Though dressed utterly wrong for a hike, we felt a pull to keep going, even after the bag was overflowing with mushrooms. Then we found the rock. We never made it to our reservation that day.

We would hike here after workdays to get away. Only one parking spot at the trailhead often guaranteed it was solely ours. One gently twisting and undulating mile took us from the modern world to one with no signs of human development. Road noise lost its way in the forest. Power lines didn’t dare venture this far from the nearest home. A circle with a slash was all we saw for phone service. This was were we went to be together, alone. This was our rock. We used to sit in those seats, gazing out and imagining the eons of erosion that had worn them just for us as we dangled our feet over the edge and felt that little thrill of fear. There was nothing on TV that could compare to our favorite show.

Neither of us ever came here alone. Except the one time. And this time. This would be my last time here. It was too difficult.

Gazing to the west, I watched the falling sun begin its daily dance with the horizon. The water turned that shimmering shade of a dozen vibrant hues. Indigos and oranges and reds mixed with an encroaching blackness. The darkness was setting in. Night would be upon me soon.

With trembling hands I held the last remaining new thing I would ever experience from my long gone love - the journal’s end. This was our place and there was no other place to experience the finality. I had avoided reading the last entry for so long because I wanted to believe it wasn’t over. As long as there was still something new, then it was still living and breathing. Reading the final pages was akin to being forced to say goodbye. That was it. There would be no more.

The journal had always been a private object, but that never bothered me. More than a few people thought we had an unhealthy mutual obsession with each other. When obligations didn’t force us to be, we were rarely apart. Rarely in separate rooms, even. And so some private writings weren’t something I ever fretted about. After the diagnosis was the only other time our place had been visited alone. I got home from work the day after the test results came back to find the other car gone from the driveway. The phone went straight to voicemail. I noticed the journal missing from the nightstand and made some assumptions. I guessed where the car, the journal, and my love were. It broke my heart to know that only one seat was filled right then. But I understood. Our entwined lives were suddenly untied and starting an unreversible unraveling.

For thirty hours the word “terminal” had never left our minds. It trespassed and loitered where it wasn’t welcome. It tormented our waking hours and fevered our dreams. The optimism we grasped at over the last year had been eliminated by those three syllables. Questions of “what else can we try?” were met with non-answers and condolences. The most difficult word to hear was “weeks”. Not years, not months. Weeks. We came home and sat silent, hand in hand, each lost in thought pondering the life to come.

The descent was fast. There was nothing I could do but watch helplessly. One of the final things I heard surprised me.

“The journal is for you. It was going to be a surprise for you some day. It’s finished. Please read it and remember the way we were.”

Years passed before I could look at the handwriting and not immediately lose the page in a blur.

***

The journal wasn’t a daily diary but a collection of short fantasy stories. They were full of mythical, magical characters: ducks that spoke with British accents, pigs that carried swords and rode on the backs of zebras, dragons, kings and queens, trolls and goblins. And always two people, whose names coincidentally rhymed with our own, at the center of it all. The two lived in a world of mischief, adventure, danger and partnership. No encountered peril could be conquered alone. It always took the pair working and acting together. Anything and everything was possible in that place and they experienced it all.

I cherished those stories. They have been read and reread countless times. The literary versions of us never got old, never died. They were and would always be full of boundless energy and curiosity about the amazing world they called home. I was excited and saddened to read the final chapter. It would be an epic tale to end with, but it would be finished then. Never a new word written. Nothing more to share from a life cut decades too short. A period would inevitably end the last sentence as well as my discovery of anything else. Who knows, maybe with what time I had left I would try to get them published. It could be a testament to our eternal lives of adventure.

I flipped to the final page and saw the familiar print, but that page was different from the rest of the journal.

I am sitting here, alone for the first time, eyes shut, listening to the waves crash far below me. It breaks my heart to feel the empty seat beside me, but I needed to write this alone and I could think of no other place to write it, except in our place. How many hours have we spent here in peaceful silence, mesmerized by the lulling waves? The trees here... They’ve been through so much. We’ve been through so much.

I have been sad since yesterday, but probably not for the reason you might expect. I’m devastated, not for myself, but for you. How can I possibly be sad for myself knowing that you are the one who has to live with the loss. I’m devastated imagining you were the one sitting here alone right now while I was at home thinking about you. Knowing that I would never be the same without you.

Originally I came here to finish my stories. It was going to mirror real life, but that felt wrong. In our world, our love will never die. Leaving the stories as they are is the only way that feels right. Who knows, maybe you’ll get them published one day and our lives of adventure can live on forever. Those stories were us, of course, but they were something deeper. We’ve always shared a connection that was different. You felt it, I felt it.

I still feel it even after all these years.

I bet you still feel it after all these years, because I know I sure do. Our stories are an extension of who we are together. They’re the epitome of a love not tarnished by time, not bent by age, and not eroded by the waves of life. The adventures the real you and I had may not have involved lizards with long hair or pigs with swords, but they were no less fantastical. These stories are a way for us to live on and still be together, always.

It all started so simply too. Do you remember our first date?

Of course I do, my love.

I wore that red shirt you liked so much.

I didn’t like that shirt, I loved it. It fit you perfectly.

Or how about that time we got lost and ended up driving for four hours when it should have only taken two? Thank goodness we left early.

That wasn’t my fault! The GPS was wrong.

Still blaming the GPS? I’ve never gotten over the time I convinced you to jump over that waterfall.

I was so scared. I can’t believe you got me to do that either.

What about that restaurant in Florence? I know you know the one I’m talking about.

The grilled octopus! That one meal was a highlight of our trip to Italy. Nothing else did compare.

Nothing could compare to it. I always wanted to go back and try to find that little alleyway again.

I know you did. I did too, if only to see the smile on your face. Your smile always melted my heart.

It may be cheesy to say, but it always melts my heart when you say you love to see my smile. I’ve always loved your smile too. And your laugh. It’s a good thing I’m so funny, because the way your eyes squeeze shut when you’re laughing is all the medicine I need. I hope you’ll laugh again like that, even if I’m not there to see it.

I keep looking over at your seat hoping I’ll see your smile again. I haven’t laughed like that since you’ve been gone.

I keep glancing over to your seat wondering if it will ever be filled again with someone like you. If I’m gone is it possible to miss you? Because I will. Our time together was never long enough.

It never was enough. I miss you so much.

I miss you so much.

I love you forever, my love.

I love you forever, my love.