Mar 31, 2024 18:25:00
writing thread (finch's version) (from the vault)
view on scratch
view on legacy ocular
zparkly
loading
main comp entry (1462 words)
lament of those lost
Evie's gaze lingered on the photo framed on the mantle.
Her vision worsened by the day, but even she could tell that the black and white picture was fuzzy, typical of such relics of the past. Yet there it was, one of the last reminders of her dearest Patrick, his face encapsulated and immortalized in such a small frame.
As subpar as the physical quality was, she could picture his face as clear as day, a sharp contrast to the rest of her fading memories. She could picture his short, curly hair, his square jawline, and his amiable yet tired eyes.
But most of all, she envisioned his smile. It was toothy and genuine, and not even the framed photograph could do it justice. No picture could capture the way he grinned when Evie walked into the room, the way his face and eyes lit up.
She also remembered the day he left.
That day, all the way back in 1965, Patrick had received a letter in the post. She watched intently as he skimmed the message, tension in his eyes. Halfway through, his face dropped, overcome with a sort of insurmountable sorrow. He had been drafted.
But they were young and full of aspiration, full of reassurance that the loose strands would tie together, and the war would die, and they would gaily reunite, ready to live how they deserved. Then, after a fervent and cordial farewell, they embraced, and he had gone his own way.
She never saw him again.
Evie, since then, rarely went outside unless necessary. She pined for a reunion, any sign that he was unharmed. Any sign of him at all. Yet there she waited, lonesome and melancholic, grasping for empty signals. Despite this, she was not a widow.
She was not a widow because Patrick was not dead. There had never been any notice that he was deceased; there had never been a recovered body. That meant he must have been alive, and she clutched onto this theory with her life. To rip it out of her mind would be to rip her heart out of her chest.
Erratic, the kids described her as. Eccentric on a good day. Either way, she had a reputation. Tales were woven among the youth, tales of the malevolent, reclusive, and delusional old woman who lived in the cottage near the forested area of town. From the outside, she understood why she was regarded as such. She rarely appeared to the public, and her house was battered and overgrown, troubled by years of Evie's indifference to it. She had no family left to defend her image.
She did not quite care what anyone thought of her, other than her missing lover.
It had been almost 60 years since Patrick left, and while she was ashamed to admit she could not quite recall the exact date, what with her withering memory, she knew it had been early March. This, a memorial was in order. A sort of ritual to honor him, as well as a prayer to welcome him home. She knew he'd have to come back at some point.
She lit a candle, allowing its familiar cinnamon scent to waft through the house, adorning the air with something that felt homey, something that felt secure. She remembered their wedding day, when Patrick's mother gifted a similar candle to her. She accepted the gift with grace, and lit it in their house once the guests had cleared out. Then, the two of them, hands intertwined and eyes shining with love, slow danced for a while. Patrick's mother was no longer around, but she insisted on using a similar fragrance whenever she could, in honor not only him, but to honor his entire family, the family that had accepted her into their life with grace and treated her as their own blood.
Evie sighed as the candle filled the air, illuminating her face and the picture she had longingly been staring at for a while, memories of their time together flooding her mind. Even something the slightest bit physical, something the slightest bit grounded in reality, was enough to stimulate her memory in a way that she typically struggled with. It was both despairing and hopeful, a bittersweet reminder of the days gone by, the good times past, and the longing she still felt for something to turn out better.
She set up his old record player, blowing off the sheet of dust laying on top of it, a humbling display of its antiquity. She pulled out Grant Green's Idle Moments from his old vinyl collection, its jacket worn out and yellowed from old age. Patrick had always loved music, and jazz seemed to have a special place in his heart. While Evie was never the biggest listener of music, she occasionally sat alone, eyes closed and breathing silent, listening to his old records for the sake of his memory. She placed the disc on the turntable, set the needle on it, and turned the record player on.
She dragged her feet to the middle of the room, took a deep breath to ready herself, and began to dance. At the age of 82, it did not come easily. As she moved, her body ached and her bones ached, but most of all her heart ached, and to her that was enough to keep going, to push through. In some way, she was reviving his memory. She was revitalizing the hope she had for him to come back. She stepped forward, to the side, and back, feeling the rhythm of the music and imagining Patrick there in her arms. In a way, he seemed to be there with her, whether it somehow was a spirit or just her imagination, another symptom of what others thought of as delusions, but she saw as pure, unbridled hope. She opened her eyes.
She frowned; the photo of Patrick had fallen on the mantle.
She paused her soulful dance, making her way to the fallen frame to straighten it. She sighed. Perhaps it was time to stop regardless, she was in pain. She would need to tone down her activity, as she could sense the grating and debilitating effect it had on her. But the remembrance was far from over.
The red couch in her living room was positioned next to a miniature nightstand, with a few cedar drawers. In one was an old, relatively light book. She took it out before sitting down on the furniture with a grunt of relief, although the pain did not fade away entirely.
She opened it, studying its intricately written letters, crafted in precise cursive, although she could no longer read the content. She didn't need to; she knew what was kept in this book. It was the letters sent to her from Patrick in the camp, dated to almost every day over the course of slightly more than a month. Then, they abruptly stopped. She always reckoned he was busy with the military, despite the fact he never wanted to be there in the first place. Otherwise, why would he ever stop? His writing was full of love and his gaze, before his departure, was full of love. He was in love with her, so he would never give up on her.
One component of the writings, however, was bolded and clear to even her weary eyes. As the heading of every letter, he wrote in thick, legible letters “Dear Evelyn Grant,” a firm but gentle use of her full name. The last word, specifically, brought warmth to her heart but mist to her eyes. “Grant.” Once married, Evie had taken Patrick's surname, and to this day, she was legally Evelyn Grant. It served as a reminder of the connection they shared, their intertwined fates. Additionally, it was a part of him that she kept with her for life. A way to keep him immortal in her name. A way to perfectly preserve the world the way it was when they were young.
She pictured Patrick arriving at the door, all these years later. He would arrive with a bouquet of flowers and apologize for being in service for so long, but she wouldn't care, only grateful that he had finally been able to return. Then, the two of them would embrace for a long while and cry together, only in contentment rather than sorrow, because Patrick had always been sensitive and not afraid of his feelings, despite being a man in the sixties. And in her mind, they were still young, and they were still fine because they had a whole life ahead of them to live together, the proper way, no longer separated. They could live perfectly.
Evie closed the book of letters and wailed.
lament of those lost
Evie's gaze lingered on the photo framed on the mantle.
Her vision worsened by the day, but even she could tell that the black and white picture was fuzzy, typical of such relics of the past. Yet there it was, one of the last reminders of her dearest Patrick, his face encapsulated and immortalized in such a small frame.
As subpar as the physical quality was, she could picture his face as clear as day, a sharp contrast to the rest of her fading memories. She could picture his short, curly hair, his square jawline, and his amiable yet tired eyes.
But most of all, she envisioned his smile. It was toothy and genuine, and not even the framed photograph could do it justice. No picture could capture the way he grinned when Evie walked into the room, the way his face and eyes lit up.
She also remembered the day he left.
That day, all the way back in 1965, Patrick had received a letter in the post. She watched intently as he skimmed the message, tension in his eyes. Halfway through, his face dropped, overcome with a sort of insurmountable sorrow. He had been drafted.
But they were young and full of aspiration, full of reassurance that the loose strands would tie together, and the war would die, and they would gaily reunite, ready to live how they deserved. Then, after a fervent and cordial farewell, they embraced, and he had gone his own way.
She never saw him again.
Evie, since then, rarely went outside unless necessary. She pined for a reunion, any sign that he was unharmed. Any sign of him at all. Yet there she waited, lonesome and melancholic, grasping for empty signals. Despite this, she was not a widow.
She was not a widow because Patrick was not dead. There had never been any notice that he was deceased; there had never been a recovered body. That meant he must have been alive, and she clutched onto this theory with her life. To rip it out of her mind would be to rip her heart out of her chest.
Erratic, the kids described her as. Eccentric on a good day. Either way, she had a reputation. Tales were woven among the youth, tales of the malevolent, reclusive, and delusional old woman who lived in the cottage near the forested area of town. From the outside, she understood why she was regarded as such. She rarely appeared to the public, and her house was battered and overgrown, troubled by years of Evie's indifference to it. She had no family left to defend her image.
She did not quite care what anyone thought of her, other than her missing lover.
It had been almost 60 years since Patrick left, and while she was ashamed to admit she could not quite recall the exact date, what with her withering memory, she knew it had been early March. This, a memorial was in order. A sort of ritual to honor him, as well as a prayer to welcome him home. She knew he'd have to come back at some point.
She lit a candle, allowing its familiar cinnamon scent to waft through the house, adorning the air with something that felt homey, something that felt secure. She remembered their wedding day, when Patrick's mother gifted a similar candle to her. She accepted the gift with grace, and lit it in their house once the guests had cleared out. Then, the two of them, hands intertwined and eyes shining with love, slow danced for a while. Patrick's mother was no longer around, but she insisted on using a similar fragrance whenever she could, in honor not only him, but to honor his entire family, the family that had accepted her into their life with grace and treated her as their own blood.
Evie sighed as the candle filled the air, illuminating her face and the picture she had longingly been staring at for a while, memories of their time together flooding her mind. Even something the slightest bit physical, something the slightest bit grounded in reality, was enough to stimulate her memory in a way that she typically struggled with. It was both despairing and hopeful, a bittersweet reminder of the days gone by, the good times past, and the longing she still felt for something to turn out better.
She set up his old record player, blowing off the sheet of dust laying on top of it, a humbling display of its antiquity. She pulled out Grant Green's Idle Moments from his old vinyl collection, its jacket worn out and yellowed from old age. Patrick had always loved music, and jazz seemed to have a special place in his heart. While Evie was never the biggest listener of music, she occasionally sat alone, eyes closed and breathing silent, listening to his old records for the sake of his memory. She placed the disc on the turntable, set the needle on it, and turned the record player on.
She dragged her feet to the middle of the room, took a deep breath to ready herself, and began to dance. At the age of 82, it did not come easily. As she moved, her body ached and her bones ached, but most of all her heart ached, and to her that was enough to keep going, to push through. In some way, she was reviving his memory. She was revitalizing the hope she had for him to come back. She stepped forward, to the side, and back, feeling the rhythm of the music and imagining Patrick there in her arms. In a way, he seemed to be there with her, whether it somehow was a spirit or just her imagination, another symptom of what others thought of as delusions, but she saw as pure, unbridled hope. She opened her eyes.
She frowned; the photo of Patrick had fallen on the mantle.
She paused her soulful dance, making her way to the fallen frame to straighten it. She sighed. Perhaps it was time to stop regardless, she was in pain. She would need to tone down her activity, as she could sense the grating and debilitating effect it had on her. But the remembrance was far from over.
The red couch in her living room was positioned next to a miniature nightstand, with a few cedar drawers. In one was an old, relatively light book. She took it out before sitting down on the furniture with a grunt of relief, although the pain did not fade away entirely.
She opened it, studying its intricately written letters, crafted in precise cursive, although she could no longer read the content. She didn't need to; she knew what was kept in this book. It was the letters sent to her from Patrick in the camp, dated to almost every day over the course of slightly more than a month. Then, they abruptly stopped. She always reckoned he was busy with the military, despite the fact he never wanted to be there in the first place. Otherwise, why would he ever stop? His writing was full of love and his gaze, before his departure, was full of love. He was in love with her, so he would never give up on her.
One component of the writings, however, was bolded and clear to even her weary eyes. As the heading of every letter, he wrote in thick, legible letters “Dear Evelyn Grant,” a firm but gentle use of her full name. The last word, specifically, brought warmth to her heart but mist to her eyes. “Grant.” Once married, Evie had taken Patrick's surname, and to this day, she was legally Evelyn Grant. It served as a reminder of the connection they shared, their intertwined fates. Additionally, it was a part of him that she kept with her for life. A way to keep him immortal in her name. A way to perfectly preserve the world the way it was when they were young.
She pictured Patrick arriving at the door, all these years later. He would arrive with a bouquet of flowers and apologize for being in service for so long, but she wouldn't care, only grateful that he had finally been able to return. Then, the two of them would embrace for a long while and cry together, only in contentment rather than sorrow, because Patrick had always been sensitive and not afraid of his feelings, despite being a man in the sixties. And in her mind, they were still young, and they were still fine because they had a whole life ahead of them to live together, the proper way, no longer separated. They could live perfectly.
Evie closed the book of letters and wailed.