Too Much, Too Late

There is a sharp knock at the door, but I’m not expecting anyone.

Damn — I’m standing in my kitchen, dressed in my comfortable but tatty sarong, in no way presentable for visitors. I mean seriously, who rocks up unannounced in this day and age anyway?

I pick up my mobile phone and check for any missed calls, unanswered text messages or any other sign that will give me a hint as to who is knocking on my door; but nothing, nada, zilch!

Another knock resounds through the house and I realise I’m going to have to answer it and they aren’t going to give me time to make myself presentable — how frustratingly annoying!

Life has a funny way of taking an unexpected right turn when you least expect it. One minute you’re heading in one direction day after day, then suddenly something flips and within seconds you’re heading in a totally different direction. One unimagined!

An impossible dream that looks to turn into your best reality, except sometimes it’s too much, too late!

It all begins with that unexpected knock on my front door. That persistent and seemingly important knock that fractures my world.

That life-changing knock.

It all started thirty five years ago, when I was just a young girl. Typical story — girl meets boy, falls in love — but in this instance the love was unrequited.

I felt such a bond, a connection, a love at first sight, kind of soul shattering love, but he didn’t feel the same way.

Over the coming years I watched from afar as he met the love of his life, watched as he wooed her and lived through the excruciating pain of their engagement and finally their wedding day.

It was heart crushing, soul destroying and it broke me. Left me shattered in a million pieces, jagged and jaded, until I gave up on my own personal love fairytale; I had missed my chance.

I tried to be the bigger person. Tried to wish the best for him. Tried to be happy for him.

I silently watched from the sidelines for about ten years, but there came a time when it got too tough. I couldn’t take it anymore and I slowly disappeared from his life. I had to protect my bruised, broken, raw bloody heart and to be honest, I don’t think he missed me at all.

Sometimes, when you least expect it, life offers second chances, sometimes fate intervenes and turns things upside down — or is that the right way round?

Sometimes, you don’t get a say in the matter!

Six months ago, I was shopping in my little grocery store, and who should I collide with? Seriously, my trolley ran right into him as I wasn’t watching where I was going. I was so embarrassed. I wanted to shrink to ladybird size and scamper under the shelf. Die a quiet death of shame.

Of all the people to run into!

Here I am, a grown arse woman, and I can’t drive a trolley. Oh dear!

Then I look up into those perfect blue eyes. Eyes I had longed for, year after year after year. Eyes that haunt my dreams and I’m suddenly drowning in their liquid depths. I forget how to use the English language, turning suddenly mute.

I revert back to my silly school-girl days. Tongue-tied and incoherent.

Silence reins until he whispers my name in shock and I smile.

“Hello Martin, I do apologise as I didn’t see you there. How have you been all these years?”

How do I sound so normal when my heart is frantically trying to fly from my chest? I’m sure he could hear it slamming around and hitting the walls of my rib cage.

He responds to my greeting, but I’m damned if I can remember what he said. All I can remember is staring in those sea blue eyes. I don’t want to resurface knowing that the heartbreak and pain will infuse my broken heart all over again.

Although, life had different plans and instead of heartbreak and pain, that horrendous first meeting has seen a beautiful friendship re-bloom over the last six months. I don’t even care that he’ll never be mine, I’ve decided never to loose our friendship again.

We catch up often; dinner a couple times a week as we fill each other in on the missing years. He tells me about his disastrous marriage and its bitter end. I explain that I never found a sustainable love and have remained single all this time.

We talk, we laugh and connect in ways that we never could in the past but I never let my heart hope for a romantic future, happy to just have him back in my life. Happy to share this new connection we have found.

Then I woke this morning. Just a normal day, no real plans; content to potter around in my little cottage doing all the things I love to do.

As I’m not expecting anyone or planning to leave the house, I slip into my favourite old sarong as soon as I climb out of bed. It’s an old piece of material really, not much to look at, but oh so comfortable. I wouldn’t be seen dead in it though if I’m honest.

But I’m not given a choice, as that unexpected knock rat-a-tat-tatted on my door.

And that’s when life serves me a curveball, a sudden change in direction, faster than I can blink or think.

I gingerly open the front door, not sure what to expect. I never receive unannounced guests as I live out in the boondocks. It’s not like I live on a main highway with traffic passing by day and night. No, I live in an isolated backwater where nobody ventures unless it’s with intent. So, I knew it wasn’t a lost traveller or someone at the wrong house.

Much to my surprise, it turns out to be the parcel delivery guy and he is holding a small package, arms extended, waiting for me to take it.

The mailman! Really? Who would be sending me a parcel?

I don’t know whether to be excited, delighted or scared. Nobody sends me mail. I don’t think I’ve ever received a parcel in all the time I’ve lived here.

I take the package and lo and behold, it is even addressed to me. So, no mistake then!

The mailman turns and walks back to his truck, jumps in and with a final wave, disappears down the driveway, leaving me standing, holding this package, in utter confusion.

Mystified.

I close the front door and stand inspecting the package but there’s no return sender’s name and address, so I’m none the wiser.

Should I be worried? Is it good or bad news? I’m not sure I have the courage to find out.

Oh, you twit, you’re scaring yourself silly, I chastise.

It’s just a parcel.

With that stern talking to, I head back to the dining room and place the mysterious parcel on the table. I sit and stare at it for some time. I cannot bring myself to open it.

I re-check the packaging thoroughly though it gives no clue as to where or who has sent it.

I decide to leave it there and go about my day. I’ll deal with it later, once I’ve got myself under control.

I head out to start some gardening, but that package has scrambled my brain. I don’t last ten minutes and I’m back at the table, turning the package over in my hands.

Still, I don’t open it.

Instead, I rise and collect a load of washing to be put through the machine, then find myself back at the table, once more inspecting the package.

Still refusing to open it. Why am I so scared?

I hang out the washing, once the machine sings its tune to let me know it’s done, return to the table and that infuriating package.

Just open it, I chide. But I don’t.

Instead, I strip the bed, remake it and find myself staring at that package once again.

It has me beat as to why I’m so afraid of it. Do I have some sort of premonition?

In an endeavour to forget, I decide to watch a movie, take my mind off things, except I find myself heading back to the package three times within the time span it took me to sit through that movie.

Finally, I’m left with no choice. I MUST open that damn package! It’s become an addiction to my addled brain. I’ll get no peace until I open it.

I carefully sit on the dining chair reaching for that package, like it’s about to explode. I slowly peel off the sticky tape holding the wrapping together, carefully fold the wrapping paper neatly and place it beside the box; well aware I’m stalling for time.

I’m left with a small, naked, silver box tormenting me as I still have no clue what it is or who sent it.

Its secrets remain intact.

I slowly reach for the box, and delicately peel back the lid, gingerly glancing inside.

My heart stops for a couple of beats.

Am I dreaming?

Sitting inside the box is a black and white photograph of Martin, down on one knee. The photo is obviously a recent one.

Martin, the love of my life, down on one knee.

What, why, how, where?

I’m confused.

For some time I sit and gaze longingly into Martin’s eyes. Grey in this picture but I know, intimately, what colour those eyes are; how they change when he’s happy, turn darker when he’s angry and grow hazy when he looks longingly upon someone he loves.

Longingly in a way he has never looked at me!

I place his photo on the table and turn back to the box.

What does this mean, I ask myself as I peer into the abyss of the box.

For there, much to my amazement, nestled in a cluster of black velvet, is the most perfect diamond ring.

Now my heart doesn’t stop, it stutters; irregular beats jumping all over the place. It doesn’t understand. I don’t understand!

I move back to Martin’s photo, gazing in confusion into those blue [grey] eyes once more. Begging for them to impart to me what this all means — terrified my heart is going to jump from my chest, to explode.

I turn the photo over and realise there is an inscription neatly penned on the back.

My eyes tear up as I read those beautiful words, written in his glorious hand, wondering if I’m living inside one of my most fervent dreams.

Inscribed are the words I’ve always longed to hear.

“Samantha, will you do me the honour of becoming my forever love, my wife, to grow old and happy together?”

I’m not kidding, that is the inscription written on the back of that photo.

I stare in disbelief, terrified to take the words on face value, until it slowly sinks in that life can’t be so cruel as to play such a practical joke; it has to be the real deal.

A smile begins to form upon my lips. In the same instance, my heart stops stuttering, gives another irregular beat, while sending a horrific, agonising pain down my left arm. I fall to the floor, clutching my chest, my smile now a grimace as my silly, overemotional, raw bloody heart gives one more ferocious beat, before lying broken and silent forever more.

It was all too much, too late!