Dear Readers,

I'm finally trying to repay you for putting up with some of my tardiness by getting this up here a little early. Keep in mind it's the late hours of the night, and I have surely made a few booboos with things. I ask you to please pardon me in advance. I will set about making corrections as soon as possible. I have pondered holding off on putting this up for just that reason, but you have all been entirely too good to me for me to keep you waiting. I also know that some of you have wanted to know about this for awhile. And trust me, not all has been revealed yet! Though, I assure this was not rushed - it's been played out in my mind for a very long time.

That being said, I know towards the end, there is potential for many to think things are a little crazy, even ridiculous. I have thought this myself many times, but considering the sources, I have never seen any other way to go about writing it. It had to be. I only hope it doesn't kill things for you. We are so very close to the end of things that it makes me very sad. I never would have gotten to this point was it not for all of you!

So in that spirit, I take my usual moment to thank profusely the wonderful redneckqueen-93, Temple, me again, Steeleafan, literaryfreak, and Gabrielle. Your inspiring, supportive, and in many cases very creative comments have been the ambition behind so much of this. I realize how very lucky I am to have such wonderful reviewers and I thank you so very, very much! Without you, none of this would be at all the same.

And so, I suppose I will leave you, safe in the "present" at last. I do hope that you will enjoy, and that I haven't made too many hideous errors! A thousand thank-yous to you all!

-Margo


"We're still going, are we, Mary Poppins?" The words drifted to Mary's ears from the far corner of her room, where her umbrella rested.

"Absolutely yes," she replied, albeit with much less force than she ever had before. Her eyes remained fixed on her reflection in the old mirror before her, where she was almost unable of breaking out of her plaintive trance. But she eventually did so, shoving her cosmetics back into her handbag before picking up the fretful bird by the throat and carrying him away.

Was Mary Poppins more in her befitted state, she would have dealt to her companion a severe chiding. Firstly, she would have seen it fit to berate the bird for daring to speak so freely in the Gettings' residence. Mary had never been fond of the creature prattling on in the households they occupied, and with several people milling about the stories of the home this last house was certainly no exception - even if she would be departing from it shortly, with the umbrella's actions having little outcome on the future. Of course, Mary Poppins would also want to instill into his mind - and perhaps her own, as well - that she would never dream of observing the last second Tuesday of her life without performing the traditional ritual that was synonymous with it. But there was simply no potency left within the heart of the woman to relay any of these fervent messages. Rouge and powder could restore to her face the hues that had long been removed from it. An expertly buttoned coat could shelter her figure from view, which had never been slighter in all of her days. None of these guises, however, could remove the constant burning in her chest, a pain that seemed to be incensed by nothing less than fragments of burning coals that were imbedded fiercely in her heart. None of them were able to replace any of the actual entities Mary Poppins had ever lost, and doubtlessly, they could not instate what things were never possessed to begin with.

And so, her blood tainted with a certain urgency, Mary left the home without a word to anyone. The entire homestead knew very well the only stipulation with which the nanny was hired. She would never have expected any interference with her action, anyway. Intrusion would have required someone in the house to care about her, to view her presence as a necessity, and above all to show her the slightest trace of love. Such feelings Mary Poppins would never find among the Gilberts or their domestics, that much she well knew by then. How she had tried to make their ending different, but the capability was simply not within her grasp. Perhaps years before, when Mary was in her prime, she would have been able to craft a finer outcome for all involved, but not in her current state. She resolved to leave as soon as this one task was finalized, when her concluding destination could be the only trace of a home and a sense of belonging she had left in the world.

It seemed that no matter what little alleyway or street Mary Poppins was commencing from, she was always well aware of the path she must take to reach her objective location. Over the years she would often wonder if this was a product of the curse that dozed in her marrow but reckoned the ability stemmed from her own desires - one of the few ideas she ever lodged in her own mind. Just then, however, Mary and her reluctant companion were progressing in the completely opposite direction. Should the parrot have taken note of this he did not mention it, and this was just as well, for surely the emptied woman had no desire to implement her usual wont of embellishing her motives for him. Within her own heart she knew exactly what she was doing.

Days before, Mary's mind had begun to accept the fact that she was indeed dying. And while the entirety of the situation may not yet have struck her in full, the woman knew that she could not depart without one final look around the city that had never loved her in kind. For all of her life Mary Poppins had contended in the sport the populace had set forth for her. Never did she set a toe over the line of decorous conduct - always ornamented in the most proper attire, complimented only by her perfect manners and courteous hospitality. In the end, however, it seemed as though her contribution to society had made no difference, and the realization that her attempts to appease her peers were made in vain would have pierced her had not a dozen other such ailments already numbed the scanty remains of her core. So much time had been wasted away for nothing. Even as she presently trekked past the familiar staunch and shaded homes, along the wrought iron fences and patches of greenery, it was these things that seemed to pay her more mind than any of the people who shared the sidewalks and brick laid streets with her. This, however, was nothing new or different. Many times over the years had Mary wondered if she was made of glass rather than flesh, spurred on by the feeling of pellucidness that from time to time enraptured her. How cold they all had been - and oblivious, too! Surely not one of them realized that their disinterest was bringing death upon the woman, and - what was possibly worse - none of them would miss her presence when in three days' time she was removed from the face of the earth and garnered beneath it. Of course, thinking such things may have made Mary Poppins seem somewhat shallow, but never were these observations smithed for herself. Rather, she would have readily accepted her death had someone not already paid a most exorbitant amount for her life.

But for as unreal as this may have seemed, the woman continued on her predetermined path without bitterness haunting her. Walking along this way and that, the only command Mary could relay to her head was to remember. Her mind did not fail her.


It seemed that from around most every corner or through the open windows there peeped the head of a child from the past, not bodily solid but rather well preserved in memory. From these apparitions sprang the story of her life: so much of what she had seen and did, the gestures and occasions that had warmed her heart and gave her hope, and eventually the actions that had fought so valiantly to embitter her soul. How she had exerted herself to defeat them, only for them to ultimately triumph over her in the end.

Mary Poppins' conscience eventually took her down a well-trodden lane, where a very familiar shop bustled with activity. It stood as picturesque as ever with its sparkling windows and well-groomed path. She stared meaningfully at the lilac bush that grew wild beside the building. It profusely bloomed a luminous shade of amethyst despite the October chill that had assaulted the air. Instinctively, Mary reached out to it, and with her gloved fingers snapped away a branch of the gorgeous flowers with as much force as she could muster. She allowed her eyes to drink in one last languishing glance before she continued on. The sight should have saddened her, but even in her deteriorated state, it was not a part of Mary Poppins' character to subscribe to such a thought. How fortunate she was to have such scrumptious experiences in her lifetime. Despite their outcome, they were more than many ever received - this she knew well. Not a day went by when she did not express her thankfulness for the life that she undeservingly had been granted. It was no one's fault but her own, she told herself, that it was coming to an end.

She continued to visit her past along the streets of London, wherever her aching heart felt inclined to draw her. It was truly a chilling experience, for Mary felt as if she was already a ghost revisiting the shortcomings of a previous life. Everywhere around her life went on while she could feel her own screeching to a halt. Knowing this, she would move along, plucking up what flowers she was able to along the way. They were a calming effect on her raw nerves, the beauty of her memories manifested into something tangible, something she could hold and possess and share solace with - for it would not be very long before they succumbed to the bitter autumn as well. It was just as Mary's head began to spin with the same jadedness that grappled her legs when she found herself sitting on a very familiar stone wall. She had brought herself back to the park. As she glanced around, the woman realized she was in almost the exact same place where she had met up again with what would be her one true friend so many years ago, when all of the aberration had only begun. How he would make her life more bearable, brightening her tarnished spirits when all hope felt lost. Often he would poke good-humored fun at her delightful little tune, but Mary Poppins did not imagine that Bert was ever aware of the fact that he was the only reason she sang of a spoonful of sugar so long after the song had originally been devised. He eased the bitter tonic of life for her, an act that in and of itself was almost as valuable as an "I love you" from the gentleman would have been. She could not fault him for this. He had done more for Mary than any other ever had bothered to, and for that the woman knew that Bert's memory would be the last to dissipate from her heart, for he was the one she loved.

Mary sighed, running a hand atop the grass behind her. Into her palm came a beautiful cluster of mums. She picked these too before rising slowly and treading away, though upon retreating through the gate she stopped dead. Once more Mary turned around. How morbid the park seemed without Herbert Alfred capering about. After all of these years, though, it appeared that he had finally moved on, a thought that made Mary's heart leap. She could only hope that someone would repay him for the kind services he had done for her. How she wished she could settle the debt herself, but it seemed that Mary Poppins could not even leave him with a goodbye. Perhaps it was better this way. The woman's own failing heart could not tell her. She closed her eyes to the actual place but not to the memories. For the first time in days, the truest hint of a smile slipped onto her lips.

"Thank you, Bert," she murmured. With a spin on the heel, she was gone.


It was only Mary Poppins' enduring determination that allowed her to traipse even further on. She longed to stop and rest, but told herself that in a short span of time she would be getting an eternity of idleness. This was her last chance to fulfill her obligation, and so with purse, umbrella, and the bouquet of assorted flowers in her hand, Mary filed past the endless lanes of buildings, until the horizon gave way to empty land. A blurred span of time later, the woman came upon a stone archway, joined on either sign by more iron fencing. She had reached her destination. Without further thought, her feet began to guide her along the final stretch to the place she desired to visit.

Even after all of these years, it was exactly as she remembered it firstly, besides from being a bit more developed. Simple blanched crosses along with hedge stones, rounded and square, were decorated with a variety of engravings and epitaphs. They formed a fortified sea, which for the unprepared visitor could prove rather daunting to wade through. But Mary Poppins knew what she was looking for. An eerie silence enveloped the place for the woman was the only one to be found visiting that afternoon. It mattered not to her, for Mary had always believed it to be the best time to come. Every second Monday without fail, the grounds keepers of the cemetery brought the property to a most presentable state. Every second Tuesday, Mary Poppins would bring with her fresh flowers and new lamentations.

There eventually came a time when her knees gave out from beneath her, forcing her onto the moist grass where a simple marker lay flat against the ground. The inscription read:

Penelope Poppins

February 2, 1862 - February 12, 1891

The daughter of the interred ran her fingers over the recession of the carved letters and winced. Releasing the array of flowers from her grasp, she spoke.

"I'm sorry!" Mary Poppins managed in barely a whisper. "I've tried. I truly have. But I've failed, too, and nothing could cause me greater pain. It's not for my own welfare I'm concerned. I should have died all of those years ago and I know it! It's for you I feel the most remorse! I failed you!"

She began to shiver from the combination of the elements acting upon her, and grasped at the cold earth beneath her before continuing on. "I've been given far more than I deserve, I know, and for that I never stop thanking you. You're the one who taught me how to think, and how to feel . . . and how to care, and how to believe!"

Mary took a long breath before beginning, aware that she did not have much energy left at all, certainly not enough to discern thought from speech. For a moment, blankness engulfed her in silence before she began again.

"Every single day I tried my best to be to all of those children exactly what you were to me! And only now do I realize how foolish I was - that such beauty and strength cannot be replicated! If I only realized that sooner, perhaps I would not have failed so miserably. I beg you forgive me, mother! So soon I'll be here, right beside you. Don't shun me as the others have!

I know I deserve no more favors from you. But of everything in this life, I've loved you most of all, and I dare not doubt the love you possessed for me."

A tingling of energy found Mary Poppins, but she knew she could not continue on much longer. "For so very long, I've sought three little words from the world. Only now does my senselessness slap me across the face. They belong to you more than they ever could have to me. You were the one who first taught me what they meant, and so I restore them back to you, the only possession I bequeath to anyone."

Mary sat up and gazed at the marker so severely that she was sure its gray stone reflected in her blue eyes. And from her lips poured the one phrase she had kept so guarded throughout her life, back to their source of origin. No longer was she afraid to say it.

"I love you."


As far as Mary Poppins was concerned, as she returned to the home of Gilbert Gettings to collect her possessions and make her final farewell - directed for the first and last time to a household whose problems she had not resolved - her life was over. After a few brief moments in the home, she would return once more to her Uncle Albert, where she would remain until her time officially expired. But as soon as Mary opened the front door, her plan was immediately complicated.

"There she is!" Shrieked the Gettings' dumpy maid, slamming her into the closet door against the wall.

Before the woman could make a move, red-faced Mister Gettings barged into the drawing room. "Mary Poppins!" He fumed. "Just what have you done?"

"What have I done?" She retorted, frightened into defending herself. "I've been out all day. I've no idea what you're accusing me of!"

The man grew all the more fierce, but Mary didn't flinch. "Well, someone's stolen away my son and that compass of his! Left the entire place in shambles! Louise heard the ruckus from the kitchen, but by the time anyone realized what had happened it was too late!"

The woman glowed with more life than she had in quite some time, induced by a state of shock. "And so I'm the culprit?"

"I'll safely bet you're at least associated with whomever has done this! Gilbert's told me of the vagabonds you go associating with - it wouldn't surprise me in the last!"

At this, something within Mary Poppins snapped. True enough, she had endured her fair share of insults through the years. Words could not hurt her. But the man had made the terrible mistake of daring to insult Bert, who the woman knew without a doubt to be more of a gentleman than Gilbert Gettings Senior could ever be. But, not unlike herself in the least, Mary grew more composed in her state of anger than enraged. She sighed almost listlessly, surveying the house beyond the doorway.

"So you're certain they're gone, are you?" The nanny dared to question.

"I've never been more sure of anything in my life!"

"How unfortunate," Mary declared. She glanced around at the few pieces of furniture that were overturned and immediately knew no burglary had occurred. The nanny was aware that the only thief was Gilbert, and what a clumsy thief he had turned out to be. "This is absolutely the oldest trick in the book. I thought your son was craftier than this, honestly."

Mister Gettings was absolutely outraged. "Do you dare imply that this was my son's doing?"

Mary looked at the infuriated man before turning her gaze to the closet door she had so rudely been thrust into. "Yes," she replied, gazing intently at the door knob. "I do."

At that moment, the door popped open, and out rolled a bewildered little Gilbert, compass clutched tightly in his left palm. Suddenly, all of the color drained from his father's face.

"Oh, Mary Poppins!" He exclaimed, trying to make amends. "I'm-I'm so sorry! I was just so worried! I didn't mean to insult you-"

"Then it's only unfortunate that you did." She interrupted, and without another word, Mary was ascending the staircase as swiftly as possible. Descending moments later with her carpet bag in tow, the only farewell she received was the sound of the Gilberts carrying on in some sort of argument. She had expected little else.


Throughout all of this, the parrot had remained entirely too quiet. No one knew this better than Mary Poppins, and when the fellow decided to speak up again, she could not deny that it was expected.

"There's one family that you may teach more by your departure than by remaining. One of the worst ever, I'd say."

It was not very often that the parrot had ever said anything that could pass for consoling, and so the silence that came afterwards resulted only from Mary's uncertainty of how to respond. The parrot pressed on anyway.

"There are fates worse than death, Mary Poppins." He insisted as they turned down Kirkby Lane.

"And just what would they be?"

"If I were you, I would thank your lucky stars that you should never have to find out." These final words were spoken with a bitterness that even Mary had never heard before.