Author's Note: Basically just wrote this for fun and my feels. I actually think the ending is perfect as it is, but I think a part of us all wants to see her get her goodbyes from those children she so loved.
"Brawwwk, that's gratitude for you," the umbrella's voice rung against her ears for the first time in weeks; the shrill, unpleasant tone that confirmed what she had felt a deep suspicion of for many moments now: she was truly alone. "Didn't even say goodbye."
Mary felt the ache in her throat before she spoke, and, for the sake of composing her voice, had to hesitate. How horrific, she thought, as she pushed it back with a twitch of the neck, to be feeling so incredibly emotional . . . so incredibly human.
"No they didn't." The statement came out just slightly below the amount of sureness she had wanted; however, it was an accepting one.
She had always been a stickler for control; a mistress of maintaining. If necessary - and necessary it was, she thought, or she should be inefficient at all things - she was an expert at detachment; a wonder at divorce from human feeling. Her job was her number one priority; efficiency the pinnacle of being. Mary Poppins would let herself cry no sooner than she would throw a masquerade in the middle of July whilst drinking cheap wine and yelling indecent four letter Anglo Saxon words.
It had taken her a while, she had to admit - and she would never admit that to anyone - not even herself at times; a while to get such control. She would feel the struggle occasionally; it would sneak up, that horrible, empty feeling of loneliness, and she would have to push it back. And then she would realize how much better she was at it each time; how in control she was, and she would think, well, that wasn't so bad; what a simple minded fool I was; now it's over, I have changed. But all the same, at the late end of every year when came the chill of the direction change, it returned in the way she thought it would never again . . . it would throw her off, and irritate her, and she would tremble a bit in her mind; she would remember something she cared not to remember . . . how it felt . . . how it felt to be human; how it felt to be practically perfect, rather than perfect.
And that human part of her, she should think, wanted a goodbye. That selfish little inefficient human part of her. How funny a thing it was, Mary thought, standing on the Banks porch, to have to feel such things once more. How very silly.
"Look at them!" The umbrella blurted, but Mary hadn't taken her eyes off of them. Their backs were turned; they were watching the green kite their father had so graciously mended after all soar through the skies amongst the rest. Though she could not see their faces, she could tell by their stances that they were smiling; those sparkling smiles of amazement and wonder they had once reserved solely for her. "They think more of their father than they do of you." Yes, after all this time, that had fallen true in the blink of an eye.
Mary felt a bit of dull, cinnamon heat rise up at this, despite the chill in the air. Her selfishness was fading.
"That's as it should be." She smiled now. The tears threatening her eyes - annoying little stinging things - receded in favor of a feeling of efficiency. Yes. That was what she had intended. She always got what she had come for.
"Well?" The umbrella asked, turning its head to look at her in a challenging, matter of fact sort of way. "Don't you care?"
Mary cared. But it didn't matter. She cared, and she controlled; she had no trouble distinguishing. An irrelevant question, really.
"Practically perfect people never permit sentiment to muddle their thinking."
She craned her neck to get a better look at them. Jane and Michael appeared to be saying something to their parents; handing the kite to Mrs. Banks, and running excitedly to the side; perhaps to have a walk to the bushels and trees?
"Is that so?" Mary barely heard this bit; or she did, rather, but paid it little mind. The umbrella continued, however, its irritated tone brushing against her ear. "Well I'll tell you what, Mary Poppins - you don't fool me a bit!"
Mary tore her gaze at last at this, and stared at him, dead in the eye. This was not up for discussion. "Oh really!"
"Yes really! I know exactly how you feel about these children! And if you think I'm gonna keep my mouth shut any longer-"
His statements hit her; annoyed that he could see through her so easily; see through her to a part in which she did not care to hold, she reached out for him. They did hit her, she repeated, but they did not matter. Holding his beak gently between her two fingers so as to keep him from prattling on about her most primitive thoughts, she spoke, gently. "That will be quite enough of that, thank you!" Finishing her statement with a tap, she removed her hand - the umbrella fell silent, obedient.
Mary turned away. Everything was well. Feeling the wind pick up - just right for her to ride away on - she pushed the handle up, readying the artifact. But just as she was about to float away . . .
"Mary Poppins! Wait!"
A bit surprised, she turned her head, a questioning expression upon her soft features. Still holding her arm out, she was puzzled as her eyes met the figures of Jane and Michael Banks, running toward her in a kiddish frenzy - the way children often do, their skirts and hats trailing about. Michael was, as usual, straggling a bit behind Jane, whose head was down to avoid having her hat fall off of her head. Both, however, seemed determined to get to her.
"And just what exactly do you think you're doing, back here?" Mary asked in her most commanding tone, her brows furrowed as she gazed down at them, her body still in readying stance to leave them behind. "You're meant to be off with your father!"
"Oh Mary Poppins," Jane pleaded, a bit out of breath, looking up at her at last. "You wouldn't leave without saying goodbye, would you?"
"Well, I -" For a moment, Mary Poppins fell silent; unsure of what to say. She stared at them - first at Michael, the young, brown-haired big-eared boy, a boy so like his father, but much more naive, of course, and innocent . . . his eyes upon her face, so thankfully, his mouth in a small boyish smile as he panted, a face that said, simply, "I love you" - and then at Jane, the girl who so felt her lessons with every ounce of her absorbent, mold-able mind . . . her golden curls falling below her hat, her utter devotion to Mary blatant in her face as she caught her own breath.
Mary's arm lowered; she felt herself smile.
Just this once, she thought, and bent down slightly. Michael and Jane ran to her, awaiting no invitation - they hugged her, as tightly as they could. Michael was at a bit of a sideways angle, his head resting on her shoulder as he grasped her left upper body, but Jane was in the front and center, and Mary held onto her; grasping her gently, firmly, and closed her eyes, angling her head to rest on the top of the young girl's in a nuzzle. She smelled the sweet innocence of her smooth hair, and felt her efficiency grow ten fold in its softness. Little Jane Banks, Mary thought; her little Jane Banks.
She pulled away, resting one of her gloved hands on the back of Jane's petite waist and smiled at her, and then at Michael.
"Now you behave yourselves, and listen to your father," she commanded, her smile receding in favor of her administrative demeanor, and they both gave sharp little nods in response, causing Mary's smile to return. She nodded back. "And be good."
"We will, Mary Poppins - we promise!" Michael said, and smiled widely, nodding with his sister. Mary raised both brows, for she disliked children's promises, and she held her perfectly authoritative glance, so as to say 'you'd better.' She stood, straightening herself out.
"Will you ever come to see us again?" Jane asked.
Mary blinked.
"I hope not," was all she said. And this time, she truly meant it.
But she smiled again, her warm, beautiful smile, and nodded at them in a final goodbye. Holding out her arm, she gathered the strength to feel the moment - and the moment was right. She let the wind take her.
Floating up, up, up, in the graceful way in which she did, she felt light - lighter than usual. It had been true, she noted - she did not want to see them again. Not because she didn't love them; not because she didn't think she could control herself if so. But rather because she wanted their happiness, and their happiness did not require her; if it did it was not true happiness. She had merely been a piece of the puzzle; a pawn in the game of their nirvana. A puppet in the stage of blissful life; livelihood in childhood. And she had played her part. She was taking her last curtain call.
High above the ground now, she felt her eyes open, forgetting that she had closed them. Something had caught her in her ascent; curious, she tilted her head, and met her old friend's glance with her own . . . Bert. He smiled, and gave a wave.
"Goodbye, Mary Poppins. Don't stay away too long."
But that, Mary knew, was for the wind to decide.