2002 School Magazine

. s original works

Love, Tennis, and the Sweet Sorrow of Parting Weeks have passed since that spring evening, and yet I still think of it. I cannot remember the man's name, for I was introduced to him only once, and at the time his name seemed inconsequential. In fact, it probably still is; for here was a man, here lived a man whose existence was entirely defined not by himse f, but by a love. I spoke with him only briefly, and in the course of the conversation we shared against the city rain, this old man told me stories of his life, and of his love it was Friday so the boys went with their books to sit alongside the girls' tennis court. The school administrations of the 1950s strictly forbade any contact between the boarders of both schools, but the girls would write short messages on crisp white paper pushihg the shys into tennis boils they cut holes in. then hitting the packages hi^h over the it, rices to the wolfing boys. Excitedly boys gathered round to read the messages- Saturday at 2- outsi'de the theatre: it was thus they first met; inovi'es on a Saturday afternoon, smoking in the dim-lit booths of the Shinglelnn, and above o11, in the untold meanings of high-hit tennis boils He looked at photos of his teenage niece going to dances with her friends, and commented that this girl's hair wasjust as his wife's had been at that age. that this girl's smile wasjust as hers was, and that this onelooked wellin red- as she always had it was some years later though, that they first strolled the city streets together alone. She would be waiting with the other nurses, topping her right footi'inpoti'ently on the curb when he found her They would shore hurried sips of whiskey for 00 particular reason, Just OS they shored stories of their work, and kisses In leafy lanes His story, their story rather. was told not as narrative, but in a segmented form, as a word or comment reminded him of her, of them. Thus I do not know how they became engaged, or were married; merely that for him the process was a foregone conclusion in heart and mind Their first and only child was a girl, whose name they whispered und laughed over und over o901h to each other marvellihg in their own brill^tincein creating such a creature. These were days of love, in chits pink peril?cti'on;lovein orongej'uice in the morning, in pork onin the twilight, andi'n talcum-scented sleep in the evening. Days of love, moments of unprecedented happiness He shifted slightly in his chair, explaining he remembered a university reunion some ten Years gone because h s wife had not attended, and as he said 'we used to always be together! This simple statement was full of sorrow, but more than anything, disbelief at the absolute absurdity of his separation from this woman he still loved Years had passed since the childhood days of their daughter and yet the strawberry tinge to I^fo remained for them always. She had nursed o901n, he had worked still and they had watched their daughter marry and have children of her own. Her death was sudden, but of course he was with her when It happened. it was a stroke, which killed her and very nearly him, on the second Tuesday evening of December He sat in the quiet rooms of their small home, remembering, and waitihg He said that when he remembered her, and their life together, most fondly he had remembered their partings From the Saturday goodbyes at the cinema. to the morning farewells to her and their daughter, these were the best times For he said he knew in that bittersweet moment, that he could. for the rest of the day look forward to seeing her again. Their parting was for him sweet sorrow, but what of this final parting? Surely there is 00 sweetness in this sorrow? is there sweetness now in his loneliness? Sweetness in his sorrow as he waits only for an end to his solitude? Sweetness in the feeling of being constantly misunderstood, and never quite at ease in the company of those who are, inevitably, strangers now? For him, sweetness does exist though. For she is neither dead, nor gone, nor forgotten. She lives with him still, and it is for this that he does not speak sadly of her in many of these stories that he tells. For, gone as she is, she is with him more strongly, present more intensely, and beloved more so than many ving. This, after all, is his sweetness

Coinin 6055 Wnner of Belty Woolcock Cho"enge Cup Year 12,200i

... , ... .. ..

.

.

Amy Surm 12 Beanlond Urbon Vistas joetoi,