The last cut of hay was brought in today, and that's that. None too soon. The Ruffians will be paid and Moll will calve before long and we'll stay out of the Lockholes for a little longer and- he's not coming back. I know now what wrong there can be in the wide world of the Big Folk, and I see with sharpening detail the overall naivety I knew as ignorance so long ago.
A year.
A very long year.
He may have left as a servant, but he's so good, he'll rise in this new big world. I can imagine him becoming a hero fighting dragons with a garden fork. Why would he come back to a confined land of stupidity to be recognised only as a gardener, or to a worn-out girl with nothing but love and some cows and a great burning hole in her heart no one can see and no one can fill?
Every quiet milking when he fills my thoughts in every way. Every smog-escaped sunbeam that sits deep in my belly and sates where his smile at it cannot be right now. Every broken moment of alone that makes me press a hand against the yearning hollow somewhere beneath my bones.
Every lean month that makes me smooth thinning cheeks and dulling hair and fear-weighted, scar-roughened mind and unconsciously ache the question is there still a desirable woman in me? Is there a woman he could love?
If he ever saw me as anything beyond Jolly's bossy big sister.
I am a fool. I never grew up with romantic notions, always swore if one walked away I'd make a good life of it with another, practicalities and purpose, respect and care, if not radiant passion. But now, even as it marks almost four seasons since he left without a word, and two seasons since I'd hoped he'd back by with a reason and apology, I won't make myself move on.
Every time that I tell myself he doesn't remember me, never noticed me, every time I struggle to recall details that fade or are remade, tenuous of fact from constant returns to them, I always remember his eyes, soft and strong, and the light that rose in me to meet his, bright and fierce, and I know as I knew before: on my side, he is the one, and until I know beyond doubt that he is lost to me, it is faithless to trample what was grown in purity and faith.
After all, three years is not such a long time in forever.
Come home, Sam. The spring is gone and the winter nearly here, and it grows dark beyond recognition. We need those who slay dragons with garden forks.
