Today marks a year since I lost Helen. Ive just fried up some potatoes, opened a jar of pickled onions, and set the table for one. The house is especially quiet tonight; the emptiness seems to echo more these days. As I sit and think about the days gone by, theres a knock at the door.
I wasnt expecting anyone, but when I open up, I see Mary my neighbour. Youve come, I say, waving her in with a half-smile. She joins me at the little table. We dont talk much at first, just share a silent toast to Helen, remembering her in our own private ways.
After a while, I reach into my pocket and pull out an envelope. Mary, Helen gave me this just before she passed, I explain, handing it to her.
She looks puzzled, But this is for you, isnt it?
Read it, youll understand, I reply softly. Mary opens the envelope and gasps quietly.
—
Marys son-in-law promised to fetch her from the cottage Saturday morning. Shes sad to leave; late Octobers come and its time to return home the waters switched off now and the chills settling in.
Mary? Mary Ann, are you in? Its my neighbour, John Smith, calling through the back door.
Come in, John. Im just here, packing up. My son-in-law will be here the day after tomorrow, and Im sure Ill get told off for all the bags Ive gathered again. But what can I do? Its mostly the harvest anyway hardly any of its my clothes. Its been a bumper year for apples. Ive dried a lot, pickled onions, jams I cant just leave it. I made it all for them, after all. I only need a little for myself.
Dont I know it, Mary. Ill be heading home soon too, but Im staying on for a bit. Its lovely out, autumns always been Helens favourite. Anyway, thats not why I came. Remember those days when we used to close the cottage season together? Your husband Sam was still with us, the children were young, and we all mucked in. The gardens were tidy, the apple saplings were hardly more than sticks then. Now, its all grown wild. Anyway, Mary, todays a year since Helen passed. I want to mark it, but not on my own. Maybe youd like to come round? Ive made fried potatoes. Well remember Helen together, and theres something Id like to talk to you about as well.
Of course, John. Here, take these pickled onions with you. Ill be over in half an hour, just got things to put away.
Our families have been friends for years. We built these cottages side by side, planted gardens, always helping each other. Every summer birthday was celebrated together. Summer here is a little life on its own, and for years we lived it together. Nowadays, my grandchildren come and stay for the whole summer so Im never lonely. Sams been gone seven years, but John and Helen were always there, good company. Now Helens gone too; last autumn she was so proud, saying she looked better than she had in years, and then well, this summer felt strange without her. John kept busy but you could tell he felt lost, digging the beds even though nobodyd be planting with him. He seemed frustrated, always making a racket in the shed. My grandchildren barely visited camp, holidays with their parents. Sometimes you wonder who youre planting all this for. Still, it keeps me busy.
I sigh, change into something neat, and make my way next door as I promised.
John greets me warmly. The tables set with simple plates, fried potatoes, tomatoes, and the pickled onions I brought. Sit down, Mary. My kids are coming tomorrow, but tonight is for remembering Helen. Look, I found these old photos. He shows me snaps Sam planting a cherry tree with me, all of us bringing in baskets of mushrooms from the woods, us around a summer barbecue, Helen squinting at the smoke. John pours us each a small drink. To us. To Helen, to Sam. Were silent, clinking glasses, nibbling on onions.
Then John pulls the envelope out. Now, Mary, dont be surprised. Last summer, before Helen passed She handled it with such quiet strength, didnt mope once. We spent her last days together, reliving every memory. Watching old films we loved, talking for hours. And one day, she says: John, promise youll do me one last thing. No arguments, just promise its my final request. And she gives me this envelope. She wrote it purposely. I could never have thrown it away. Here read it.
But this is for you, I repeat.
John insists, Just read it, Mary. Youll see.
Mary slides out a single page, Helens handwriting still strong:
John, my darling. I have to go on ahead, but life carries on, and I wish for you to live it for both of us. My only wish is for you to be happy and that doesnt mean youll forget me. Quite the opposite. I cant bear the thought of you moping, John, I want to look down and know youre alright. We loved life too much to waste it. You might meet someone, and I want you to know, thats not only alright with me, Im hoping you do. Especially Mary shes always been so dear. Ive seen they way you two get on, and Id love for you to ask her to live with you. It would be the best thing for you both. We never gave up on life, John. Please, dont lose heart keep living, no matter what. Yours, Helen.
Mary reads the letter again, eyes brimming, then looks up at John.
I promised Id follow her last wish, Mary. Im telling you so you can decide for yourself, Johns voice is thick with nerves. Lets give it a try. Weve had such a warm friendship, and I think that counts for more than people realise. Theres no shame in choosing joy. Would you be my wife, Mary? I promise, you wont regret it.
Mary is stunned you can see the surprise in her face. She looks at John, searchingly, and finally speaks. John, Ill think about it. Ill tell my son-in-law I need another week here, I havent finished packing.
Thats how it was settled. John walked Mary home that evening.
But sleep wouldnt come easy to Mary that night. Such a decision weighs heavy, memories spinning through her mind. As dawn neared, she dreamt of Sam, standing there, grinning as always What are you hesitating for, Mary? Its easier to go through life together. Marry John. Dont worry, Im happy for you. Better than seeing you alone.
The following summer, Mary and John took down the fence between their gardens. Twice the grandchildren now running wild, John built two swings and dug the beds; Marys planted so much, the family will have plenty. Her granddaughters help with their own patches. The grown-up children come at weekends, pleased to see their parents together and looking after each other.
Perhaps there are people whod judge, but I think Helen and Sam are looking down, smiling. Their wish for happiness has been fulfilled. Life carries on, no matter what.
