A fallen memory
by Imogen Bayley
It was a Sunday and John had been busy completing the usual set of weekend “tasks” his wife assigned him. If he let himself think about it, John might have realised that the few hours spent alone, mowing the lawn, clipping the hedges and cleaning the car were the most precious of his week.
Today, the big job had been getting out the ladder and clearing out the roof’s gutter of dirt and leaves. Unfortunately for John, the old ladder hadn’t been as enthusiastic as he was. Which explained why he found himself lying on the concrete in front out his house, delirious with pain and calling for help.
And why he could no longer feel his legs.
As John lay on the pavement, his eyes trembled and shut. He tried to recall the last time he had suffered a major fall. It must have been some thirty years ago… that night he been dared to jump from the 10th floor onto a neighbouring rooftop and broke his ankle. It had been a fun night. Who had dared him again?
Of course, his first love.
Maria.
Maria had been in her first year of philosophy and aspired to establish her own philosophy journal. The journal, she had told John, would be full of the “shit the department won’t fucking recognise as good fucking shit”. She was a philosopher, not a poet.
He had met her at a party, while sitting on his friend’s couch discussing a recent assignment. A drunken Maria had pushed in, sat on his lap and declared him a nerd, before adding that it wasn’t the assignment they had been set that was dull, but them.
Alone on the same couch six hours later, John finally broke the conversation to ask for her number.
From then on they had been inseparable. During the day they would meet between classes, bitch about the lectures they had and how they would do things differently. They would argue about politics, moan about their families, dream about travel and plan for all their recognition and success.
By night, they would argue some more, drink, dance, and laugh together. Sometimes, Maria would want to walk and sit by the waterfront, even when the weather was cold and all they had was an old blanket they couldn’t afford to replace. John’s favourite evenings were the ones where Maria would want to swim. He always pretended he didn’t want to, which would annoy her and force her to show him how determined she was to do it. She would defiantly remove all her clothes, fling them down on the wet sand and stand there, arms on hips, beautiful, daring him to refuse her.
That’s how he thought of Maria, as he lay there on his back 30 years later. Her hair whipping her cheek in the wind, completely naked except for that serious expression on her face, demanding that he follow her. He remembered the feel of her in the cold water, her slippery arms wrapping themselves around his neck and drawing him in for a long, warm kiss. It would take only the lightest touch to leave them both breathing heavily, clinging to each other as they rocked back and forth with the waves.
After, they would go slowly back to his place, where Maria would beg him for a hot chocolate, before collapsing onto his bed. He would put on a movie and she would put his arm around her waist, pulling him close until she could feel him completely up against her. She would always fall asleep first, her energy finally exhausted.
He had never been able to get enough of her. Her courage, her strength, and her fierce passion were there from the minute she opened her eyes to the minute he would close them with a kiss. Life with Maria had been… full.
As the sun emerged from behind a cloud it pierced through John’s memories and eyelids, making them blink and run with tears, bringing him straight back to the present reality. He never should have bothered with those damn leaves. He was supposed to be mowing the lawn by now anyway. He had promised last weekend he would do it and never got round to it; his wife had been furious all week.
Still unable to move, he tried calling out again for help.
This time, he heard noises from inside the house and the sound of the front door opening, followed by the sound of his wife running to reach him. In a second she was there.
“John! John! My God what happened! John, can you hear me?”
He looked up at her old, frightened face. Her hair was tied tight in a bun, and the worry written into the deep wrinkles and lines around her eyes and forehead was plain to see. She stood there, with her apron and those big yellow cleaning gloves still on, her arms on her hips, frowning down at him.
Finally, she was here.
Maria.
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