1906

I sit on the salt-soaked dock, waiting. The cool, foamy waves wash over my bare feet as thoughts fly through my head, faster than I can possibly comprehend. They’re indecipherably confusing me, toying with my brain and tricking me.

 

I see her. Sitting on the dock with her feet in the water, her golden eyes shining in the rising sun. Her hair shimmers billowingly from her head in the sun-warmed wind, illuminating her whole self with all the more light. My sandals sink into the soft sand as I walk toward her.

 

Stay steady.

 

I sit down next to her on the dock and slip off my sandals. Sliding my feet into the cool water, I bounce her foot in and out of the waves with my own, splashing the sparkling jewels high into the air, laughing with each other like second graders.

 

That was when I pushed him into the water, engulfing him in the pearls of ocean. He pulled me in with him, and soaking wet, we splashed each other, as if back in second grade. I haven’t ever had as many memories with anyone else as I’ve had with him.

He makes me feel like I have worth, like I mean something to someone. It’s refreshing being with him, almost as if I’m coming up from air, gasping for breath, and he provides it for me, filling my lungs with every ounce of air that I could ever need.

 

He reminds me of a tree, strong and confident, with firm roots securing him. If a storm comes in, he fights it. He doesn’t fall down, but stands tall and strong, his branches securing him and everyone he loves.

 

She’s the ocean. Graceful, happy, light. She beautifully dances across the beach, with elegance. She loves hard, and fights for what she believes in. She’s strong, but knows when it’s ok to cry, to weep. .

 

We understand each other.

 

 

1915

True beauty can come in all shapes and sizes. It can be deceiving, but when you find it, you know it’s real.

Like snow. Sparkling, shimmery blankets of glistening whiteness coating the ground, the streetlights illuminating its beauty. Untouched by the anticipating boots of little children, eager and ready to bring the beauty to abrupt extinction with a tidal wave of energy.

That’s what I’m appreciating now. As I’m walking along the quiet streets with not a single thing to disrupt the peacefulness, it’s rather angelic, as if I would never get to see something quite as dazzling as this.

 

Another beautiful thing I love is the sky. There are so many rainbows of colors that can be incorporated into painting the magnificent artwork of the sun rising and setting of every day.

I was always told that my very own eyes were a part of that wondrous artwork. Not something quite as spectacular as the vibrant scarlets or striking violets of the sky but a beautiful blue with a hint of grey and a sprinkling of gold.

My mother always told me that my eyes were one of the few gifts of true beauty she had been given. She believed that every person was bestowed only a couple of those true moments of beauty throughout their lives, but it was only given to them when they so very desperately needed it most.

 

When Death came reaching its hand out for my mother to grab ahold of, I was only 9 years old. The only thing I can remember to this day about my mother is her lying in her bed coughing so frequently that she could barely choke out any words. The ones she did manage to say were to ones that I think of every day:

“You my darling, are my one true gift of beauty.”

 

And then she did the only thing she could.

She took Death’s hand.         

1917

I find myself to be a craftsman of literature. Delicately manipulating words as if a puppet being thwarted to life upon its strings.  

         Words can be harmless. Docile, even. When it comes to blossoming sentences and phrases into flowing rivers of pure humanity, it’s one of the times I enjoy being a craftsman.

But words aren’t always what they seem. They can be deceivingly cruel.

Some people borrow words in that harmless, docile way, but others aren’t always so forgiving. They’re senseless, and aren’t sure how to cause words to sink deep into the soul, and maybe they can’t even get them to skim the surface.

So they abuse them.

That’s what happens with confusion. It suffocates you, crushes you until the only thing you can do is break.

 

When I think of what words really are, I see my past. What I could’ve done, or even what I should’ve done.

I wish I could tell him how sorry I am. At the time I borrowed my words in the way that they should never be borrowed… and now I can never give or take them back.

But, I guess that’s just part of the game of life.  If you mess up, you mess up. You pick up your pieces and sew them back together again with every ounce of strength you have left.

And although I’ve tried to sew my pieces back many times into what they once were, it was never quite the same. I didn’t have those wondrous blue-grey eyes like before.

I didn’t have him like before.

 

Life and Death are interesting things. Death doesn’t discriminate if you’re a good or a bad person. She knows when a person’s time has come, and when it does, she’s there, reaching out her hand for their weak fingers to grab ahold of.

Life knows that there are happy, beautiful moments in a person’s life, but that there are also tremendously sad ones. He awards people these beautiful moments when they are most in need of them, but he isn’t responsible for the sad ones. No one, not even Life or Death knows where these sad moments come from, and it’s likely no one ever will.

 

And so I sit. At my typewriter, with not a shred of light besides the small, dancing flame that burns by the wick of a melting candle.

And although I don’t have many moments of beauty in my life, this thriving flame is a small, but precious one.

 

1941

I can’t see much through the hazy smoke. It’s dark and grey, and no one can see anything besides it. The smoke is immersing us within in its dark, concealed self, suffocating us from even the slightest sliver of what little sunlight there could be.

This was anything but beauty.

 

All I hear is screaming. The frequent bang of a resounding gunshot, ringing throughout the dying city, shaking the building to its core. London is under attack, and I know I’m not safe. I can hear the sound of the bombs raining down in the distance, searching for their target and meeting it with a malicious boom.

It appears to me that I’m the only one in the slowly disintegrating building. I stand at the base of a stairwell in a building which seems to be an apartment. With every CRASH, the walls crack and splinter to dust. The bombs haven’t quite arrived, but they’ll be here in a matter of moments.

 

I feel a big shake and I come crumbing to my knees.

The bombs have found their target.

Me.

 

I hear a loud noise from above my head. I crane my neck to look at the high roof above me… The roof’s cracks have met each other and the concrete falls, falls straight towards my head.

Everything seems to happen in slow motion after that. I press my eyelids together, knowing that the inevitable is within arm’s reach. I brace myself for the ceiling to come crashing down upon me, waiting for the thing that will end my life once and for all.

    

And that’s when I see her.

Death.

 

She’s reaching her shadowy hand out for me, waiting with anticipation for my warm fingers to touch her icy ones. I can’t fully describe what she looks like. All I can say is that she’s a shadow. A being of blackening coldness that is perfectly inescapable. We both know that Death isn’t something to be afraid of. She’s merely a being who’s responsible for delivering us to the next stage of our existence.

And really, who knows what could happen after I take her hand?

Surely nothing bad.

 

And so, I give in. I reach out my hand for her.

And she takes it.

I become aware of her little fingers winding themselves around mine as we walk together down the twirling trail.

I love the sound of her small shoes bouncing themselves against the dirt road. She has the skipping and dancing type of feet, the type that crafts any movement she does to be purely wondrous.

She is my gift of beauty.

As we approach the end of the trail, she seems more and more visibly worried. She’s looking far off into the distance, and I turn my head to try to see what’s distressing her.

It’s a plane.

It’s coming in our direction.

And it’s coming fast.

 

The smile that was was on my face moments ago has disappeared. I know what’s about to occur. I know what will happen to her and I. So with tears quickly forming in my eyes I tell her that I love her more than anything else in the world. That she is what makes me happy and that I don’t ever want her to forget that.

But most importantly, I tell her that she is my one gift of true beauty.

 

The plane is approaching us rapidly. She’s confused as to what’s happening, crying big rivers of tears streaming down her beautiful face. I lift her precious dancing feet off the ground and hug her as tightly as I can to my chest. She sobs harder and harder, but not nearly as hard as me.

 

One moment I’m crying, the next I see a dark, shadowy figure.

And I realize... she isn’t in my arms anymore.

She’s gone.

 

The shadow extends her hand to me.

And I take it.

My eyelids hesitantly open themselves to see that I’m in the sky.

It’s a beautiful sky, one of the many beautiful masterpieces of scarlets, golds and violets.  

I sit in a train car with many other people. They all seem relieved, as if they’ve finally gotten what they’ve been looking for. I look at all the faces and among one looks familiar. And then I realize,

It’s her.

She’s looking out the window and doesn’t see me at first. But then she turns her white-blonde head and sees me.

And we stare at each other.

And she smiles her beautiful smile.

And I can’t help but think,

This is what true beauty feels like.