Always
There could never have been a lovelier sight. But none were there to see it except a strange boy staring in from the window. Peter Pan had countless joys that other children could never know, but he was looking at the one joy that he must be forever barred.
"To live would be an awfully big adventure," Peter whispered. A fairy by the name of Tinkerbell played a violin in hopes of cheering him up. She succeeded in making Peter smile, and he gave one last glance at where the Lost Boys – Nibbs, Curly, Tootles, Twins, and Slightly – and Michael, John, and his beloved Wendy-lady, surrounded by their newly found parents (one of them an elderly lady who Slightly was hugging).
And Peter Pan's shadow disappeared from the window. No one noticed, except a pretty girl, with full rosy-red lips, beautiful bronze hair, and eyes as blue as the ocean. Wendy Darling went to the window, and gazed at the boy whom she'd shared her first kiss with.
"You won't forget me, will you?" asked Wendy.
"Me?" asked Peter, crossing his arms. "Forget? Never." Wendy smiled. Peter hovered where he was for a moment, not taking his eyes off of his Wendy, until finally, he gave a small wave, and went to fly away.
"Will you come back?" asked Wendy suddenly.
"To hear stories...about me!" said Peter. Wendy smiled, and Peter Pan flew off into the heavens, a great ball of light just behind him. And when he flew off, it was said that Wendy's kiss went with him.
"But I was not to see Peter Pan again," said an older Wendy, twenty-years- later, to her eleven-year-old daughter Jane. "I tell his story to my children, and they will tell it to their children, and so on for all children grow up...except one."
"So you knew he'd forget you?" asked Jane.
"Yes," said Wendy, slightly remorsefully. "I knew he had too many adventures to remember me, for I was just another. But you know what?"
"What?" asked Jane.
"Sometimes, I like to think that I took longer to forget than any other adventure that he ever had," said Wendy, smiling. Her lips were now rosier before, and her cheekbones higher, and her bronze hair now more of a light brown. Only her eyes were the same dark blue. Jane smiled.
"Do you think he'll ever come for me?" asked Jane.
"Maybe," said Wendy. "He might come back, but we will never know, for a boy with as many adventures as he can only fit so many things into his mind at once. I'll be very much surprised if he even remembers Captain Hook. Good night, Jane."
"Night, Mummy," said Jane. Wendy kissed her child tenderly on her cheek, and Jane soon fell asleep.
That night, a familiar shadow crept across the carpet. Peter Pan looked into the nursery, and scratched his head. Didn't the nursery look a bit different before? Where was John and Michael's bed? All he could see was Wendy's. And what happened to all of the swords and daggers?
But he found out that the bed no longer belonged to Wendy, but her daughter Jane. He flew off with Jane, after getting Wendy's permission.
It has been a long time since then, for you see, that had many years ago, sixty years to be precies. She was now no longer eleven, but seventy-one, with a daughter named Margaret and three grandchildren name Abby, Michael, and John (John and Michael were named after Margaret's great uncles, who were in fact the two boys who had ventured with Wendy to Neverland all those years ago). And Wendy was no longer thirty-two, but ninety-two.
She stood, at the same window that she had when she was a little girl. She had remained in the house, with her daughter. Her granddaughter Margaret had long since moved out, but still frequently visited with Abby, Michael, and John, and her husband, Marcus.
Wendy was very much different looking than before. Her hair was no longer a light brown, but white. Her face was incredibly wrinkled, made up almost entirely of laughing lines, worry lines, and age lines. The only thing that was the same as when she was twelve was her blue eyes, which had seen so many things, and she remembered all of them. But one memory stood out more vividly then any other: the face of a young, thirteen-year-old boy with blond hair curled every which way and green-blue eyes, and who vowed to never grow up. And he never did, either.
Wendy always remembered Peter Pan. She still had his kiss, which had amazingly still lasted, though still incredibly old. And he still had hers.
"I'll always believe in you, Peter Pan," Wendy whispered, because she had always said that, no matter how tired, every night since her adventure, because you see, she always had believed in Peter Pan. Wendy secretly feared that if she didn't say that, the child in her heart that still thrived would shrivel up and die, and she'd end up like all the other old ladies (though none as old as her).
She knew somehow that even though she had never visited it since her adventure that Neverland still existed, and that the boy who would never grow up was, too, for Abby, Michael, and John came to visit one day, babbling about going to a land where you never grew old and to get there, you had to be led there by an ageless, cocky boy with blond hair and a ego as big as his sense of adventure, which was quite big, and fighting pirates, meeting the Lost Boys and the Indians, and getting information from the mermaids.
Unfortunately, that would be the last adventure that Wendy would ever hear about concerning Peter Pan. Why? Because that night, sitting warm in her bed, Wendy Moira Angela Darling Maxwell died, physically. But her inner child, the inner child that she'd kept alive all these years, lived on in the land where only the young could dwell and where fairies existed, Indians stalked, pirates sailed, and a group of boys played at, led by an ageless youth always accompanied by a little ball of light, and who'd said that he wanted always to be a boy and have fun. Always.
There could never have been a lovelier sight. But none were there to see it except a strange boy staring in from the window. Peter Pan had countless joys that other children could never know, but he was looking at the one joy that he must be forever barred.
"To live would be an awfully big adventure," Peter whispered. A fairy by the name of Tinkerbell played a violin in hopes of cheering him up. She succeeded in making Peter smile, and he gave one last glance at where the Lost Boys – Nibbs, Curly, Tootles, Twins, and Slightly – and Michael, John, and his beloved Wendy-lady, surrounded by their newly found parents (one of them an elderly lady who Slightly was hugging).
And Peter Pan's shadow disappeared from the window. No one noticed, except a pretty girl, with full rosy-red lips, beautiful bronze hair, and eyes as blue as the ocean. Wendy Darling went to the window, and gazed at the boy whom she'd shared her first kiss with.
"You won't forget me, will you?" asked Wendy.
"Me?" asked Peter, crossing his arms. "Forget? Never." Wendy smiled. Peter hovered where he was for a moment, not taking his eyes off of his Wendy, until finally, he gave a small wave, and went to fly away.
"Will you come back?" asked Wendy suddenly.
"To hear stories...about me!" said Peter. Wendy smiled, and Peter Pan flew off into the heavens, a great ball of light just behind him. And when he flew off, it was said that Wendy's kiss went with him.
"But I was not to see Peter Pan again," said an older Wendy, twenty-years- later, to her eleven-year-old daughter Jane. "I tell his story to my children, and they will tell it to their children, and so on for all children grow up...except one."
"So you knew he'd forget you?" asked Jane.
"Yes," said Wendy, slightly remorsefully. "I knew he had too many adventures to remember me, for I was just another. But you know what?"
"What?" asked Jane.
"Sometimes, I like to think that I took longer to forget than any other adventure that he ever had," said Wendy, smiling. Her lips were now rosier before, and her cheekbones higher, and her bronze hair now more of a light brown. Only her eyes were the same dark blue. Jane smiled.
"Do you think he'll ever come for me?" asked Jane.
"Maybe," said Wendy. "He might come back, but we will never know, for a boy with as many adventures as he can only fit so many things into his mind at once. I'll be very much surprised if he even remembers Captain Hook. Good night, Jane."
"Night, Mummy," said Jane. Wendy kissed her child tenderly on her cheek, and Jane soon fell asleep.
That night, a familiar shadow crept across the carpet. Peter Pan looked into the nursery, and scratched his head. Didn't the nursery look a bit different before? Where was John and Michael's bed? All he could see was Wendy's. And what happened to all of the swords and daggers?
But he found out that the bed no longer belonged to Wendy, but her daughter Jane. He flew off with Jane, after getting Wendy's permission.
It has been a long time since then, for you see, that had many years ago, sixty years to be precies. She was now no longer eleven, but seventy-one, with a daughter named Margaret and three grandchildren name Abby, Michael, and John (John and Michael were named after Margaret's great uncles, who were in fact the two boys who had ventured with Wendy to Neverland all those years ago). And Wendy was no longer thirty-two, but ninety-two.
She stood, at the same window that she had when she was a little girl. She had remained in the house, with her daughter. Her granddaughter Margaret had long since moved out, but still frequently visited with Abby, Michael, and John, and her husband, Marcus.
Wendy was very much different looking than before. Her hair was no longer a light brown, but white. Her face was incredibly wrinkled, made up almost entirely of laughing lines, worry lines, and age lines. The only thing that was the same as when she was twelve was her blue eyes, which had seen so many things, and she remembered all of them. But one memory stood out more vividly then any other: the face of a young, thirteen-year-old boy with blond hair curled every which way and green-blue eyes, and who vowed to never grow up. And he never did, either.
Wendy always remembered Peter Pan. She still had his kiss, which had amazingly still lasted, though still incredibly old. And he still had hers.
"I'll always believe in you, Peter Pan," Wendy whispered, because she had always said that, no matter how tired, every night since her adventure, because you see, she always had believed in Peter Pan. Wendy secretly feared that if she didn't say that, the child in her heart that still thrived would shrivel up and die, and she'd end up like all the other old ladies (though none as old as her).
She knew somehow that even though she had never visited it since her adventure that Neverland still existed, and that the boy who would never grow up was, too, for Abby, Michael, and John came to visit one day, babbling about going to a land where you never grew old and to get there, you had to be led there by an ageless, cocky boy with blond hair and a ego as big as his sense of adventure, which was quite big, and fighting pirates, meeting the Lost Boys and the Indians, and getting information from the mermaids.
Unfortunately, that would be the last adventure that Wendy would ever hear about concerning Peter Pan. Why? Because that night, sitting warm in her bed, Wendy Moira Angela Darling Maxwell died, physically. But her inner child, the inner child that she'd kept alive all these years, lived on in the land where only the young could dwell and where fairies existed, Indians stalked, pirates sailed, and a group of boys played at, led by an ageless youth always accompanied by a little ball of light, and who'd said that he wanted always to be a boy and have fun. Always.