The Time Will Come

I felt a deep connection to William from the moment I met him. He was the retired, village teacher, that everyone knew and deeply adored. His endless joy was effervescent. I often wondered what force within him could possibly power that level of happiness, given all he had endured. Now in his 90’s, he peacefully awaited the end of a life fulfilled with a “knowing” that I could not comprehend.

Our friendship started when I first commented about his lovely garden. From that day on we visited practically every day and as he aged, I helped him out in his yard. We shared many stories but none touched me more then his recollection of Rose. It was the kind of story movies were made of and it truly gripped my heart.

It was nearing the end of the war. The late spring of 1945. Rumours of a resolve were heard everywhere, on every front. A brief furlough took him to the remote countryside of Southern Italy. Only a few shops remained open and the smell of fresh bread drew him to her family bakery. Her first look took his breath away. Never in his dreams could he have imagined the intensity of that one look. It enveloped sadness, sincerity, surprise, excitement and curiosity. She captured his heart before a word was ever spoken. Rose chatted with him while preparing his coffee. The sound of her voice hugged his spirit. It was so much more then a lonely, war ravaged young man meeting someone. It was a life changing encounter. The hope filled hazy mist, of that first meeting still gathers around his eyes as he retells the story, their story, yet again.

After visiting over biscotti, she accompanied William to a few area sites ending in a tour of the local church and it’s beautiful gardens that showcased rows and rows of fragrant roses. For three days, they never left each others side. They walked and talked and danced to soft music that poured out in to the streets. They sipped on wine and laughed in the moonlight till early dawn. One look led to three glorious days accumulating with a secret wedding back at that picturesque church. They vowed to love each other forever, to search for each other after the war, until they would reunite one day. Unbeknownst to her family, they spent their honeymoon night in the loft of a neighbouring barn that had been left abandoned from the war. The next morning, he would leave on the early train to join his platoon. The goodbyes were unimaginably difficult, but they comforted one another with the promise of reuniting.

William was involved in the final stages of the war effort and that delayed him much longer than he anticipated. While the rest of his men headed back to the US, he slowly made his way to the village. The anticipation of what lay ahead was almost more then he could bare. Sadly, upon his arrival it was apparent many families had been displaced in the last few weeks of fighting. This was not at all what he expected. Only a few elderly were left and no one seemed to know where Rose had gone. For months and months he searched. To the North and then South and yet, it was as if she never existed. He couldn’t possibly go back to the US without her. He settled in the area. Became a teacher and stayed…waiting... for her return.

He never married again. He never even dated. William was always preparing for her. Filling each day, each year with her memory and the commitment to love her forever. Never having any children of his own, becoming a teacher in such a close-knit community was the perfect outlet for the immense love and compassion he possessed.

His time was spent between the school and his beloved rose garden. He would venture out there for hours, never with a look of grief or forlorn but always with a bright wide smile, as if she were standing right there with him. He confessed that even all these years later, her love was so powerful that he could still feel her there, next to him. Although so much time had passed and those many decades took their tool on his physical body, his mind never forgot very detail of that first moment. We often reminisced and it brought him such delight to relive it all.

I had been called over to his cottage to prepare his final arrangements. Even in his last days, he was so thoughtful as to ensure he would never become a burden on anyone, he insisted on overseeing and prepaying for any plans. We sat on the back porch over looking the rows and rows of multicoloured blooms. The intoxicating scent of rose would have swayed even the hardest of hearts. It was a picture perfect moment and I felt so fortunate to be William’s friend and help him transition through his end of life. He presented a small stack of papers and shared, that in between his extensive journeys travelling the world to find Rose, he had saved what he could. He explained that he had prepaid all his arrangements and then slowly reached out and took my hand and said that he wanted me to have his estate. He welcomed me to move in to his cottage and live in it as if it were my own and to use the $20,000 to care for his beloved home and rose garden. He couldn’t imagine it being left unattended. My heart was full. What an extraordinary gift. I smiled as a single tear slowly rolled down my cheek. I had never known such kindness…such love.

I had been on my own for so long. I ended up in the Italian countryside, I searching, like William had. I longed for relationship and connection that seemed to come so naturally for most but somehow evaded me. I didn’t know my birth parents and my adoptive parents were missionaries that traveled Europe after the war and in to the 80’s. Moving around so much never offered me the sense of home and intimacy that I needed. I left the family young and headed to the US just in time for the wild 60’s and 70’s. I got lost in two decades of peace, love and rock and roll. Living a vagabond lifestyle, thankfully funded by my art. It was the only place I could momentarily stifle the loneliness and embrace a sense of happiness. It was my love for art that brought me back to Europe. I would study the greats and live out the end of my life surrounded by beautiful music, people and of course, art in the countryside of my youth. Having William as a neighbour had been an incredible source of companionship and he certainly taught me to never give up on a dream, especially when it involves, love.

William and I laughed loudly and drank lavender iced tea. It was rather somewhat unexpected when he retreated for a few brief moments and slowly shuffled his way back, out the old wooden door. He looked me deeply in the eyes and explained that he had saved his most precious, most valued possession, for last. That he had intended to be buried with it but felt led to share it with me. That in giving it to me, he was convinced it would keep his love for her alive. He reached over and with such intense care he gently placed an aged leather bound, black book in my hands. His face shone with a blend of pride, joy and just a hint of hesitation.

As I carefully opened the book and read a few sentences, I could see this was his detailed description of each moment they shared together. Every word and every thought he had while experiencing her. There were hand drawn florals and landscapes in the margins of various places they had visited. An accounting of every minute of the wedding in that charming hillside chapel. The colour of her dress, the ribbon in her hair and even the smell of her perfume as she walked down the aisle to him. He had literally captured it all, every emotion, every action as if he used a video camera. It was overwhelming. I had to just sit a while and gain my composure. It was all too much.

William spoke softly then as if he knew how deeply I was touched by his decision to share their life with me. He brought me to the end of the book and explained that in the last several pages he had diarized all his efforts to find her. He wanted her to know that he never gave up. He had continued to try and find her, to be with her, again. My eye was drawn to a reference of a date and the name of a hospital. When I enquired, Williams explained that he had tracked down the Priest that performed their wedding ceremony who had heard she been hospitalized in the far north. When William was finally able to find someone to assist him with this new search, he was met with sincere apologies that although they could confirm her attendance at the hospital, there were no records remaining to confirm the reason for her stay or if she recovered. He only knew that she had been there, on that date. It was encouraging yet horribly devastating to never know. That hospital was the last known sighting of his beloved wife, Rose.

As I listened to him share yet another loss, another disappointing event, I was taken away in my thoughts. He ended his words with deep gratitude at still being so thankful for the time they had and the love they were blessed with. In his silence, it was as if a puzzle was being put together in my minds eye. The location of the hospital, the date, the region where my adoptive parents had been young missionaries, the small orphanage they had visited and the fact that they were never offered any information about the young woman who gave birth that day, other then the date, the hospital and that she had not been well enough to survive the birth. That a minor complication had occurred at a remote medical center and they weren’t able to save her. But it was then, in that instant… that I knew.

It was a moment or two later that William’s face lit up like nothing I had ever witnessed before. We cried out together and wept in each other’s arms. We embraced for the first time as Father and Daughter. Rose, was in fact my Mother. I had been conceived out of that incredible, whirlwind romance of intense love. After years of both of us searching, we were brought together in pain and in truth. In his effort to remember her, to document their beautiful adventure together, he saved just enough information for all the pieces to come together. Who could have possibly imagined that our most significant life connection would be revealed, decades later, on the old worn out pages of that little, black book.