A/N: Yet another late-night rambling. Repetitive and full of patterns, but heartfelt. I hope you enjoy.
Disclaimer: I own nothing here.
These days, it is hard to remember.
I sit in my garden, staring at the winding tunnels and paths so deliberately chaotic in which I once took so much pride. I used to spend hours gazing out of my high window at the crawling vines, the twisting branches, and the beds overflowing with herbs and blooms. I would walk among the rustling leaves and harvest leaves, stems and roots to prepare poultices, ointments, and teas. I would proudly admire this creation of mine that cared for me so completely.
These days, it is hard enough to remember to pluck the thistles from their stolen homes.
I am fortunate, though. I still remember things. I have heard – or I believe I have - of men and women who have long forgotten everything of importance in their lives. They remember their names and their birthdays and all those other things strangers seem so surprised when you cannot remember. But, they cannot remember those things which give them passion and meaning in life.
Lord, what fools these mortals be.
I remember the important things. I may not know what to call myself, but I know that I have whispered the name of my beloved. I may not know when the anniversary of my birth is, but I know that I have shared it with people who love me.
Loved me?
These days, it is hard to remember when the past was and when the present is occurring.
Perhaps if I focus on something concrete, it will draw me back? Maybe not.
I wear a gold charm bracelet everyday. I have for as long as I can remember – whatever that may be. A gift? However, it does not have any charms. I don't know why. Maybe I lost them years ago, fumbling around up to my elbows in the dirt and muck.
These days, it is hard enough remembering to keep breathing.
I have a closet full of costumes. I rarely go in there. They were all carefully arranged the last time I checked - organized by some system based on a combination of time period, material, and color. There are ball gowns, masks, evening wear, gloves, handbags, stockings, underthings, shoes, and dozens of other items pertaining to pretending. I think I used to enjoy pretending.
All the world's a stage.
There is a man who comes here. I am not sure if he comes everyday, but he comes often enough that I remember that he does. He holds my hand and whispers in my ear and walks with me through the garden. Sometimes others come with him – they talk and laugh and eat and make a general mess of things, but he always cleans up after them. He is a considerate man. I think that he is the one who takes care of me.
These days it is hard to remember, but sometimes, when we walk together, I can picture us as once being a couple blindly in love.
Silly me.
Still, it is nice to pretend.
Even when absent, I watch her. I must. I love her.
It is my fault she is the ways she is. Dozens of years ago, when we were young fools in love, newlyweds charging blindly forward, I made a mistake that has cost us everything – nearly even each other.
I am immortal. She is a human.
I will live as long as no one kills me. She will die after a few brief years on this earth.
Many years ago, long before even her great grandmother was born, I read stories of immortals who fell in love with humans. Apollo and the Sybil. Aurora and Tithonus. Selene and Endymion.
I should have learned from their mistakes.
Apollo and Aurora both lost their loves to old age after forgetting to request eternal youth alongside immortality. Even Selene, who seemingly had learned from their failures, lost her lover to an eternal sleep that kept him young for time beyond measure.
I wished for my beautiful Sarah to remain young and healthful with me forever.
In the end, though, her own mind has betrayed her. On the outside she appears no older than her late twenties, but her mind is the age it would be had she never met me.
Despite all appearances, she is an old woman now, losing herself to the sands of time.
These days, all I can do is remember.
After all, she never will.