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There's always hope
Hope in death
It brands these bonds
Refines the rest
But these days are numbered
This life absolute
I need this faith to keep me walkin'
To keep me aliveOh darlin', oh darlin'
Won't you please take me home
Oh darlin', my sweet darlin'
Won't you please keep me warmWe must strive to be
Be like the moon
To be kind
Distracted by its tune
'Cause these days are numbered
This life absolute
We all complain if it rains or it shines
But we're never mad at the moonOh darlin', oh darlin'
Won't you please keep me warm
Oh darlin', sweet darlin'
Won't you please take me home- The Head and the Heart
She had reached her final days, he knew. The nurses knew, the doctors knew. And so they had sent her home to find her final rest. She was in pain, he knew that too. Every breath was a struggle, every moment agony. He wanted her to find that final rest, to be free from the pain. But selfishly he also wanted her stay, for him.
He didn’t know how to live without her. He didn’t know how to be himself without her. She had become not only his life, but his very soul. She was as much a part of him as his own lungs, his own heart. How could he keep breathing, keep living when those were finally ripped from his chest? And yet the way she so feebly clung to him broke his heart, and he found himself wishing that death would take her and give her peace.
The life they had built together had passed so quickly. He had memories of his life before her, of course, but they seemed separate from him somehow. It was as if he were looking into someone else’s mind, someone else’s memories. Surely his life began with her? He knew that he had never truly lived until the first moment he held her, the first time he kissed her. So what were these moments in his mind, these memories of before he knew her? They felt empty and hollow to him now. Even the joyful moments were tinged with a bittersweet sorrow, for no happiness could exist without her.
The rest of his life stretched before him, a gaping chasm of loneliness. He had other people he loved, of course, and who loved him back. But he would never see her smile again, never hear her laughter, never feel her skin, or smell her hair. He hoped his life without her would be short. And yet as soon as the thought crossed his mind, he chastised himself, guilty for the pain it would cause those he would leave behind.
He mourned the moments his sweet darling would miss, and he yet again felt that bittersweet pain of both wanting to follow her into the beyond and of wanting to embrace all the love that life still had to offer.
He wished that he had more memories to cherish. Why had he ever complained about the way she folded his clothes, or the duvet she chose for their bed? Why had he ever argued with her over petty, inconsequential things? Why had he not taken her to more fancy restaurants, or on foreign holidays? Had he told her every day that he loved her? Had he shown her? Had he kissed her as often as he could?
He picked up her fragile hand and pressed it gently to his lips. His eyes were dry, physically unable to shed anymore tears for the woman that he loved. He inhaled deeply, relishing the scent of her skin. He gazed lovingly at her face, eyes closed but not yet at peace. He committed her features, her skin, and her smell to memory. He sat with her hand pressed to his lips, trying to store up all the kisses he would miss later.
In all his life, he had never known another woman like her. She was strong and brave. She was the kindest, most gentle spirit he had ever met. She wanted everyone around her to be happy, and she worked hard to make that happen. And now she was going to leave him, forever.
Finally, his love opened her eyes. He saw reflected there the fear and despair that she faced moving into the unknown, and he knew that it must be time. He suppressed his own grief and gave her a small smile as he puckered his lips against her skin, giving her one last kiss. This was the last gift he could give her, easing her fear.
“I love you Joanie,” he whispered, knowing it was for the last time.
“I love you too.” Her voice was weak, almost inaudible.
They sat in silence, gazing at each other. Joan could feel her life draining.
“Bring me Cormy,” she murmured.
She needed to see him one last time. She needed him to understand. Lucy knew, she would be okay in the end. But Cormoran… She had more to tell him, and she knew he had more to tell her. She wanted him to know how much she had always loved him. She wanted him to acknowledge - not for herself, because she already knew - to himself how much he loved her in return.
She hoped that he would find love of his own, like what she had with Ted. He needed it, and she hoped that in time he would come to see just how much he needed it.
Joan struggled, determined to hang on long enough to tell her boy goodbye, and hopefully long enough for him to say it too.