There are times when I feel as though I have always been here. Of course, I know this isn’t true. There was a time when I arrived; although I can’t remember when. There was a time before I knew, what seems like, everything about this place. Now, it all is so familiar: its gardens and courtyards, the paths which meander between flagstone patios and tiny sitting areas, outdoor rooms that are hidden behind hedges, and others that lay serenely under the canopies of tall, arching trees; its buildings, dining rooms with walls of windows which fold away, and open out onto raised terraces; hallways that lead inside to kitchens; and stairways, and bedrooms; and small closets, only large enough for a person or two, which hold enchantments in secrecy, and surprises that delight. And of course, the light—everywhere the light. Bright, golden light that fills the rooms and spills out through the windows, causing the flagstone to faintly glow in the gathering twilight. Light which makes the white columns and door frames shimmer and shine, and gives one a warm comforting feeling; and makes the heart smile, if not sing. It is light which radiates from thousands of tiny bulbs, suspended from ceilings, and strung out across the garden landscape, forming promenades of stars under which people gather, or walk hand-in-hand in blissful reveries.
I am fortunate. Because I live and work here. I belong here; at least for now. I’ve given my life to this place, after all. And for goodness sake, I built the patios with my own bare hands. I laid out the pathways, and dug them, and raked them smooth. I clip the hedges and prune the trees. I’ve earned my keep, I should say, but even so, I feel uneasy. Always anxious, in the back of my mind, wondering, when might I be asked to leave? When might I be noticed, as an imposter, and shown the door? When might I lose it all? But we are more like a family here, than a business. We all work together, everyone does their job. We meet face to face, and there are smiles, and handshakes—embraces—laughing and sharing; and when we look into each other’s eyes, I feel safe. And for a moment, I disbelieve my doubts, and I begin to think that this may last forever; though mercy isn’t mine to give, it still may shine on me. I was never jealous about not owning this place, or that others did. I didn’t need to own it; I just didn’t want to lose it. Jealousy, for me, was the lie that I could keep what I have forever, that I wouldn’t someday have to give it all away.
In the garden, where three gravel paths meet is a tall circular hedge. It is a hedge of pink camellias trained against a lattice framework of roughly eight feet diameter and eight feet high, open to the sky, and with an opening near one of the paths. The camellias are pruned so that one can see through them, and through the lattice, to the inside of the circle where a metal frame stands, with a hook at the top, from which a large wooden birdcage is hung every evening after sunset. This is done without fanfare, and nothing advertises the event. It is a simple gift. The birds sing for about fifteen minutes and then, after they conclude their song, the cage is taken away again until the following evening. Like an intermission between acts at the theater, the bird song is an interlude in the midst of life’s dramas. For this brief time everything in life falls away as in a dream, and those who are fortunate to be there by happenstance, along with those who made a point to be there, can be carried away to wherever they please, to places known only to them. One might drift gently into the past as the tiny birds sing, or one might follow their song as it lifts them up into the night sky, and dream of future things. Sometimes, loved ones lost in the past even appear for those who listen. And from night to night the song is never the same. One night the song may be a simple sweetness; another night it may be bittersweet and melancholy. Some nights the birds sing like trumpets blaring, triumphant and holy, and other nights theirs is a soft and gentle lilting. Without conductor, they orchestrate improvisationally, as one body, like a flock of birds in the sky, darting this way and that, seemingly without a leader, but always in harmony. To the listener their music is always familiar and enchanting, and intimate; as if it is being composed just for them.
One evening as the birds began their song, I was walking through an empty dining room on my way outdoors, when I paused a moment to listen. Their notes were low and resonant, but feminine, like those of an alto voice, and then a trill like that of laughter rose lightly over the top, dancing in the air and then fading into the night. I was startled by a voice behind me, of very similar quality, and turned to see a woman standing near me, only slightly younger than myself. She had eyes that reminded me of Cleopatra—large, dark, sultry—and olive colored skin, smooth like a child’s; and she smiled ever so subtly in a manner reminiscent of the Mona Lisa. I recognized her instantly as my first love from my youth, though she had aged by several decades, and like me, was no longer a child. Her presence here and now, so suddenly and unexpectedly and so close to me was exhilarating. Memories of our shared past flooded my mind, and mingled with thoughts of new possibilities. My first impulse was to embrace her, and hold her close as though no time had ever passed between us. I took a small step towards her, but she pulled back and looked at me quizzically. She clearly didn’t remember me.
Perhaps she simply didn’t recognize me. I was much older after all—heavier, grayer, balder. If I had become a forgotten love, it was not surprising; and to be expected after so many years. I couldn’t blame her for that. So I decided to bide my time, not press my luck, and wait for a more advantageous moment to make my move. Why so many silly idioms such as ‘make my move’ suddenly came into my mind at that moment I chalked up to nervousness, and to the unexpected influx of so many adolescent memories.
As she spoke to me it became evident however, that she wasn’t here in order to fulfill my dreams, but she had some of her own. The bird song, if it had indeed magically brought her here, apparently had a broader scope than my personal interests. She informed me that she was here to purchase the property. She wanted to take a look around, at everything that was to be included in the sale—all of the buildings, the grounds, its gardens and the surrounding woods. I must have appeared alarmed, for she quickly assured me that there would be no immediate terminations to staff; in fact, she planned to keep everyone on after the completion of the sale. Of course, she couldn’t guarantee there wouldn’t be some shake up down the road, that was probably inevitable, but nothing right away. We would cross that bridge when we got to it, she said comfortingly. Her assurances failed to put me at ease however, but somehow made me more anxious about my status here. At the same time I was so enchanted by her presence here, that I could not put aside my delightful memories of holding her and kissing her; and the joy of our ‘deep’ conversations when we were young. I yearned to speak with her like that again, and to spend time with her as I once had. In hopes of also sparking some memory in her of our previous life together, I offered to be her guide and to show her around the property. As we walked outside, my mind raced in search of things from our common past which I could say to help jog her memory. The home she grew up in, where we had spent so many hours together, came forward in my mind.
“I imagine this probably reminds you of your childhood home,” I said airily, trying hard to appear nonchalant, while waiting intently for her reply as we walked. “I mean the flagstone patio and French doors, the trellis and such.” She said nothing. “I was just thinking, it is likely that this here is very similar to what you had then,” I paused, waiting, and still she said nothing, but continued to walk with me. I began to get nervous at her silence, and doubted myself; maybe she wasn’t the girl from my past after all. I ventured a little further, “I was only thinking, it would make sense if this reminded you of your childhood home, and was the reason you are attracted to purchasing this now,” I struggled to continue, but did so, clumsily: “I bet you even had a pool, like the one over there, and a covered walkway with climbing vines, just like this one here.” And still, she said nothing. She drew her coat tighter and plunged her hands into the pockets, and glanced indifferently this way and that, easily ignoring my conversation, while inspecting her surroundings.
But I persisted, convinced that it was impossible she could be anyone else but who I remembered her to be; she had to be my first love, there was no way I could be mistaken. In fact, her silence now made me even more certain. I searched my memory for something bold, some detail, something more intimate, that she couldn’t ignore, that she would have to respond to, and prove to both of us that we were who we once were. But what could I say; what should I say? Surely there are some things that I remember, but I couldn’t say those out loud. And what if those things meant nothing to her? Or if they had faded in her memory, or mingled with other memories, of other men; and what if there was nothing so special about me, in her mind, at all? I reconsidered it would be better not to be too bold. We paused in the garden, standing before an enormous hydrangea in full bloom, the light from a nearby window illuminating its large, mop-head flowers, making them look like Chinese lanterns, glowing against the surrounding darkness. “Do you still know loneliness?” I asked her, as we stood there in the semi-dark. “Even as a young woman, you possessed amazing insight. I marveled at you. You understood the ache that lives inside every man’s heart.”
She turned towards me and took my hand in hers. There was a lovely gleam in her mischievous eyes as she looked up at me. She smiled.
“You do recognize me, don’t you?” I whispered. “You do remember.”
She laughed. “Of course I do.”
“Well then, why didn’t you? You acted as though…why, you were pretending that you didn’t know me?!” I was incredulous, but nearly laughed as well.
“I wasn’t pretending, not really. We aren’t the same people we were back then. In a sense it’s true, I don’t know you.”
“You are still as clever as I remember; that hasn’t changed. Frankly, I don’t think I’ve changed much at all since I was eighteen.”
She sighed. “Besides, it was humorous watching you struggle to make me remember.”
We laughed; and then I lifted my hands, placing them gently upon both of her cheeks, and I held her face briefly in my hands, feeling her warmth. And then I stroked her hair for a moment; touching her to prove to myself that she was real. My mind could not believe what my senses surely felt; I found myself lost in thought as I held her. But was she real? This moment was pregnant with the totality of all that I could remember about this girl, and of our times together. All of my dreams, memories, regrets and hopes coalesced into this vision of her that was now before me—which I held so poignantly in my arms—and touched so vividly with my hands and with my mind, but which were also tinged by an aspect of fantasy. As I gazed into her dark eyes, trying to extract every depth of emotion that might dwell within her, in order to feed my own desires, the familiar feeling that I could not have her, returned to me. It was a recurring awareness that I never owned her, could never own her, and had no claim over her. Again, I wondered if she was real, even though I believed that I was holding her close to me. Yes, she was my first love, and she had become more than that; she became also a symbol of everything that I love, and everything I cannot keep in this beautiful world, including life itself.
I was startled back from these thoughts and the sweet stupor brought on by them, when a small bulb began to flicker on the strand that hung over the pathway above us. We continued our walk. We spent the evening together, and far into the night walking the paths through the gardens, as I described the grounds, the buildings, and everything I knew about the property she intended to purchase. I smiled within myself as she spoke to me all about her past, and her plans for this place. Unlike me, she seemed destined to remain here, and it made sense to me that she would someday own it. In a romantic and poetic way she seemed worthy of it all; like a princess entitled to inherit the kingdom. Whereas I always saw myself like a guest, or a hired-hand, and one that was grateful to be allowed to stay for any amount of time, but who would inevitably have to move along someday.
We sat down on a stone bench and listened for a while to the sound of falling water from a nearby fountain. The morning light was not far off now, as the night was well spent and coming to a close. This life suddenly reminded me of lyrics to a favorite song, from a time long-past—words so warm and tender—but words that one can no longer clearly remember. I reached out and took her hands in mine, feeling her warmth, as we sat together listening to the water fall and observing the night sky fading. Yes, in time, I know that I shall awaken, but for now I will hold her just a little while longer.
