Standing in
the shower after an evening, night, morning of leisurely lovemaking, she feels
the water rolling down her scarred spine and remembers her own youthful
travels. Worried in the abstract she wonders how her daughter will look, that gawky,
gamine balletic big-eyed child who is no longer just a child, after three short
months apart.
She recalls
her own coming of age, the journeys taken alone, young, blonde, vulnerable,
around the globe as she went out in search of something beyond the ordinary
life; the chance encounters, friends and lovers, good times and bad. She hadn’t
felt in danger, but maybe times were more innocent then, maybe she was more
innocent then. Still, she can’t help but worry about her little girl.
Perhaps it
was the water, bringing back a memory of a beach where, topless, she sat in the
sea and gorged on a watermelon, unselfconscious as only the young can be, the
water on her skin which brought thoughts of possible danger. Had she really
been so naïve? Sharing an isolated beach with two men and not even thinking
about consequences. Would her baby do such a thing? Probably not. Perhaps. The girl is so…grown up in so many ways. She
has always had a wordly air, a way of seeing and responding to life which is so
mature. And yet there is that wild element which perhaps comes from her mother.
The joy of life.
The thought
makes her smile, stepping out into a bathrobe, wrapping a towel round her hair.
Her partner is already up, making rich-smelling coffee which makes her tummy
rumble. Happily middle-aged, slightly overweight and crumpled in his t-shirt,
her tummy still clenches slightly when she looks at him, the wonder of him, the
man who came to love her after all those sad years alone.
As always,
he reads the back of her mind. “The bus from Naples gets in at ten,” he reminds
her, “we have plenty of time.” They both move towards the window which
overlooks the hillside sloping down from Ravello to the sea, past the bustling
villages to the deep azure water which seems to have been a theme of her life,
in her memories. She nestles her head into his shoulder as he puts his arm
around her. She thinks for a moment about how lucky she has been, in the end,
then corrects herself; not lucky, we made this life ourselves, out of hardship
and pain and isolation, we found each other and made it happen.
How will
her daughter be? Familiar, yet perhaps a little strange, a little stranger at
first. Wild around the edges yet carrying that air of sophistication with which
she has been blessed. Happy and grown-up, innocent and experienced. Her
daughter will be a little like she was, but different enough. At last, she
relaxes for a moment. However she is, she is living her own life, which is the
destiny of every child of every mother; to become themselves.
Not
bothering to turn, she squeezes him gently and talks quietly; “You were right,”
she says, “we were right.” He kisses the top of her face. “We were?” he asks. “Yes.
Love is the answer, in the end.”
A warmth
floods through her as he turns and enfolds his strong arms around her, his scent
enveloping her with comfort. “Yes,” he replies, “in the beginning and the end,
life is about love.”
They share
the pleasure of togetherness a few moments longer before she turns to shrug
aside the bathrobe and begin to dress. “Okay,” she affirms, “let’s go and see
my baby.” A single tear escapes. Happiness overflowing. She smiles.
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