John had fried some potatoes and opened a jar of pickled onions. Today marked a year since his beloved Helen had passed away. Suddenly, there was a knock at the door.
“You’ve come,” John smiled gently when he saw his neighbour Vera standing on the threshold. He invited her to the table. Silently, they sat together, remembering Helen. At length, John pulled an envelope from his jacket pocket.
“Vera, this envelope was given to me by Helen, just before she left,” John explained, handing it to her.
“But surely, this is for you,” Vera said in surprise.
“Read it,” John replied softly. “All will become clear.”
Years ago, Veras son-in-law had promised to fetch her from her cottage on Saturday morning. She was reluctant to leaveby then it was the close of October, and the water had already been shut off. It was time to return home.
“Vera! Mrs. Brown, are you at home?” John Peterson, her neighbour from the allotment two doors down, knocked gently.
“Come in, John. Im still here, just gathering my things. The son-in-law says hes coming for me the day after tomorrow. Likely to scold me, too, for all the bags Ill have. But what can I do? Most of them are goods from the plota basketful of apples dried for winter, pickled onions, jams. I can hardly leave them behind now, can I? I do all this for the family. Its not as if I need much for myself,” she said, sighing.
“Too true, Vera,” John nodded. “Ill be leaving a bit later, though. Im happy to linger awhile longerautumn is a beautiful season. Helen was always fond of it. Thats partly why I stopped by: do you remember how we used to close up our allotments together? When your Harry was still around, when we were young and the children so small. Then, the plots were neat as a pin, the apple saplings barely taller than our boots. But now its all so overgrown. The reason I really came, Vera, is this: it’s been a year today since Helen passed. Would you come and remember her with me? Im not keen to be alone. Ive fried up some potatoes. We can sit together and talk about Helen,” John said, twisting an envelope in his trembling hands. “And I have a matter I want to speak to you about. Will you come?”
“Of course, John. Take these pickled onions, will you? Ill be over in half an hour, I just need to finish packing.”
Their families had been friends for many years, raising walls and planting orchards side by side. Every summer, they celebrated birthdays together. Summerit was a season of its own little life. Veras grandchildren now spent every summer with her, so she was rarely lonely. Her Harry had passed on seven years ago, but John and Helen had always been steadfast neighboursfriends, really. No, they *were* friends, once. For Helen had passed, just last autumn. Only this past year, shed boasted of losing some weight, saying she looked like a modelbut then John was restless all summer, digging up beds though there was no one to replant them. All one ever heard was the knocking of his tools in the shed. Vera herself had fewer grandchildren visiting this season, what with camps and seaside trips. She was not quite sure why she still toiled so much in the gardenwatering, weeding, always busy, though alone.
Vera dressed herself and wandered over as shed promised.
John awaited her. The table was neatly setfried potatoes, fresh tomatoes, and the onions shed brought.
“Sit down, Vera. The children will be visiting tomorrow. But tonight, lets remember Helen. Look, I found these old photographs. See, Harrys planting a cherry tree with you. There we all are, back from the woods with baskets of mushrooms. In another, a bonfire: Helen squinting into the smoke. Heres to them,” John lifted his glass of sherry. “To my Helen, and your Harry.” They sat a long while in silence, crunching pickled onions.
At last, John drew out the envelope.
“Vera, I dont want you to be shocked, but hear me out. Last autumn, Helen faded right before my eyes. We left the allotment in August, but she never let on she was unwellshe was so strong. We spent every day remembering our life, as if living it all again. We watched our favourite old films, talked for hours. Then, one day, Helen handed me this envelope, and said: ‘Promise youll do what I ask, John. Not just as a favour, but as my last wish. Say nothing more, we both understand.’ Shed written this lettershe knew Id never reject it. Hereread it, Vera.” He passed her the envelope.
“But thisits for you,” Vera hesitated.
“Read it, Vera. Youll understand.”
Vera opened the letter, written in Helens familiar hand:
John, my love. Im leaving early, but life must go on. Promise me youll live for both of us. You must be happy. It doesnt mean forgetting meit means you mustnt be miserable. I dont want to look down from above and see you lonely. We both adored life. Dont be scared to find happiness again. If you meet someone new, remember, Im not just at peace with itId hope for it. And if it happens to be Vera I always thought you two made a fine pair. Shes good, shell understand. Ask her to live with you. Surely, it would be for the best. We never gave up on life, John. Please, carry ondon’t lose hope. Yours always, Helen.
Vera read the letter once. Then she read it again. She looked at John, tears shining in her eyes.
“I promised to do as she wished, Vera,” John said, voice trembling. “Its your choice, of course. We have a bondthe friendship, the memories. There’s nothing to be ashamed of. Each day together is a blessing, to waste it would be a sin. Be my wife, Veraand I promise, youll never regret it.”
Vera was so surprised, she scarcely knew what to say. She looked at John, considering his words. There was a kind of truth there.
“All right, John,” she replied quietly. “Let me think about it. Ill tell my son-in-law Ill be here another week.”
And with this, John walked Vera home.
That night, Vera barely slept. It was no easy decision. She saw her whole life played out before her. As dawn broke, she dreamed of Harrystanding, laughing, as real as day. “Whats on your mind?” he said gently. “Lifes easier when youre not alone. Marry John. Im happy for you.”
The next summer, Vera and John removed the old fence between their garden plots. Soon enough, there were twice as many grandchildren running about. John built a swing under the old apple tree. He dug new bedsVera planted everything imaginable. There was always enough for all their growing family. Her granddaughters helped in the garden, too, for she gave them each a patch of earth. Their grown children visited on weekends, pleased that their parents were not alone, but supporting one another.
Perhaps there were some who saw fit to judge them. But Helen and Harry looked on from above, smiling. The final wishto be happyhad been fulfilled. And so, despite everything, life went on.
