Coming North by Ave Valencia

Coming North

This is the story of a girl who fell in love.
Hard.

Everything she ever wanted in a person, she found in one man- without even looking.

He was serious, responsible, witty, knowledgable, respected, hard-working, just, good-looking and an heir to profit- everything she wasn’t.

They had things in common: chess and Casablanca, theater and church, even vegetarianism. But ultimately it was their goals that brought them together.

They married between purple mountains and a turquoise mediterranean sea on a warm summer morning and moved to a far-off deserted castle the very next day.

Together they worked the harsh rebellious soil til it gave fruit. Date and plum blossoms began to bloom everywhere sunlight fell. The birds returned. They sang for her.

The years passed and they had not had children. This was irrelevant to her but one day a mid-wife checked the now-woman’s belly and told her she was barren. The woman was only momentarily disturbed, for she lived in a placid bubble of serenity. She had a calico, a German Shepherd and a lamb named Noah.

But her husband had no such bubble.

One day a horse-cart rode up on the side of the road and a traveler gave the man a letter. The man read it every day by the fireplace for six months before finally telling his wife that his grandmother was ill. They must move back to tend to her.

“Why can’t she move here with us?” asked the woman. “After all, she is from around here. I bet the country air would do her good.”

The man’s countenance had grown cold and rigid over the last six months, only she barely now noticed it.
“We are going back.”

The woman cried but silently now for she perceived her opinion made no difference.

When they arrived at Grandmother’s house, the woman tried to get along with everyone but she did not feel she was really a part of that family. Having no land to sow, she took to studying, but books can be an expensive hobby. Grandmother quickly regained her health and started boarding all sorts of young single men to help with the rent. But she continued to split her family’s cost of living with her favorite grandson.

The woman knew not what to do. On the one hand, she had no money. She managed to get a relatively “normal” job where she quickly learned to delegate her tasks to her handsome co-workers. But she did not have peace.
She no longer knew her husband. He seized to live for her.

Then came a pleasant surprise, for it turned out the woman was carrying twins.
She kept the pregnancy to herself, afraid her husband would take it the wrong way. But of course eventually the twins were born. They were two tanned baby girls with brightly colored eyes, bearing much resemblance to her. Only they both had tails.

“What is it that you have done, Wife? These cannot be mine!” exclaimed the husband.
“Oh but they are! Believe me! No one else’s could they be!”
This argument went on for years and years during which time the girls grew beautiful and intelligent while their parents (for the husband was, in fact, the biological father) grew further and further apart. At one point the man stopped believing in love altogether- not moral love, for this story isn’t about conventional love, but affectionate love.

The woman was lonely and by way of turning down various real suitors, she began to have conversations with imaginary ones.

“How was your day today Honey?”
“Again? Don’t waste your thoughts on that.”
“You are with me now.”
“You are right, we should go there In the summer, but I bet it’s more fun in the winter.”

At first her daughters didn’t notice. When they would hear her she would pretend to be singing. But eventually one said to the other, “Who is mom talking to?”
And the other replied, “To herself.”

From then on they grew anxious around her and encouraged her to stay inside, afraid she would embarrass them. They were a lot closer to their father by then.

So the woman took to writing and every time she picked up a pen and paper, this is how she’d end:
“I use you. I cannot see without you. You are my North.”

No one ever read what she wrote and upon her death- for she died of sadness- her letters were cremated along with her body. But somewhere in the world there is a soul who will live a happy, productive life because she evoked a final prayer for him on her deathbed:
“…He was my north.”

Coincidentally for WordPress Daily Prompt: Unconventional Love

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About Ave Valencia

My friends say I'm an artist. My cats think I'm the greatest thing since smoked salmon. My family- well let's just leave it at that.

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