A New York Epilogue

part two

Callie lifted herself off the bed and was relieved her body only mildly objected to being disturbed from its comfortable posture. Any aches she felt were more caused by lying in too long rather than life telling her she was 76 and should be grateful for small mercies.

"Ha!" She voiced out loud, although there was no one to hear her. "I'll go out fighting to the end."

She lived alone now and loved it. Ian had turned out not to be her true love, but instead just one of her true loves. The concept of 'couples' seemed a strange one to her. Artificial. Who said you should be all your life with somebody else, living with him or her and not looking elsewhere? Who? God? Nobody knew.

She was still friends with Ian and they spoke online often – he lived in a retirement condo in Florida. During their years together he had blessed her with two beautiful children, who in turn had gifted them with four wonderful grandchildren. How could she not still love a man for that?

She looked at herself in the full-length mirror. What she saw was the body that had carried her around, carried her soul, carried her mind, carried her heart. She saw the folds in her skin and the ancient scars as victories, her wrinkles and age as a map of her life.

When she looked back on her life, at the scared little 16-year-old running from the juvenile detention centre to meet whomever it was that was going to offer her shelter for the night, she wanted to pick her up and shake her and shake her. To take her to one side and tell her that her life was just starting and how wonderful it was going to be.

A montage of her life made now would be a wondrous visual mosaic of affairs – enjoyable lusty and vigorous, with handsome lovers. Long friendships. So different from what would have been produced if it were to have been put together when she was 16.

Contained within the montage was a story, a narrative, life fulfilled. Old age could not avoid sadness because there were more years behind than ahead, and Callie certainly had reason to be sad simply counting those who were no longer present: Stef and Lena long ago, Brandon more recent.

But she was as content as she deserved to be.

She took the lift down to the apartment-block lobby.

"It's a cold one today, Miss Jacobs," the concierge said by way of welcome.

"Hi, Jack. The cold days are the best." She offered in return.

She then found her concentration led away and wrapped in warmth by the 'young' man standing by the exit facing her. Jude gave a wide smile to his sister. For an instant he resembled the 12 year-old-boy who had accompanied her her entire life, then the 22 year-old young man who had held her first child – a proud uncle, then the 25-year-old who had held her second child, the 30-year-old standing at the altar next to his husband-to-be, the 35 year-old at his son's christening, 55 at his son's wedding.

"Are you OK, sis?" He asked when Callie appeared in a trance.

"I'm fine, kiddo."

They left the building and ankled through the snow, freshly fallen on the side-walk, arm in arm.

End.

A/N: Thank you, everyone for reading this short story. As I have said before, this may be my last Fosters fic...until the next one, that is. In the meantime I would like to revisit an unfinished Joan of Arcadia story, edit and repost some old Buffy stories and catch up on the 21 episodes of Fosters I have yet to watch (plus 8 Orphan Blacks, the whole 2nd season of Continuum etc.). Failing that, I may just relax and put Stevie Nicks or Joanna Newsom on.

Be happy. Be well.