Archive of Our Own ^beta

You remember the first time you visited her grave. It was a sunny day, overcast only by the occasional cotton-cloud drifting lazily overhead. Blue and yellow pinpricks dotted bright and lively across green waves of grass, and birds crooned in the branches of her tree. 

You remember thinking that it was as if it wasn’t quite real— as if it was something to be seen behind a screen, enhanced and altered for the viewer. You remember thinking that this sentiment was rather ironic, given your background. 

Yet, despite it all— despite the irony, the déjà vu, the intense feeling that you do not belong in this beauty— the day continued to be picturesque. It continued to look as if it were enhanced by a loving hand. It continued to be perfect. 

You wondered, sometimes, if that perfection set the precedent for what the two of them had. If the machine overtook what was once natural, deforested it; bastardized it. 

And so you got into the habit of talking to her. 

She wasn’t around anymore, but death had never stopped a human from speaking, and it wouldn’t stop you. So you sat in a nest of blue-and-gold flowers, haloed by the branches of an old oak atop an older hill, and you spoke to the small engraved headstone nestled at its roots. 

Your first visit was rather awkward. Something along the lines of, Gosh, I’ve never done this before, and, Where do I even begin? and, Should I even be here at all? 

You thought, then, that maybe she was listening. The branches overhead swayed in a way that seemed forgiving, and you felt a little better. 

The next few times, you apologized. It was overcast those days, grey and speckled with golden rays of light. Wind danced in from somewhere far away, gently ruffling the grass with its languid fingers. You could smell a rainstorm on the horizon. It was quiet; peaceful; the kind of weather that fostered the need for a warm drink and a warmer body to curl up with. 

Your apologies always went something like this: 

Golly, where do I even start? 

It’s hard enough to admit that I was even wrong! (Inserted here was a well-timed, slightly awkward chuckle.) But… I was. And I hurt people. (Here, if you were feeling particularly down in your dumps, you’d take off your hat or scarf and clutch it sorrowfully to your chest.) I didn’t realize it at the time, but my games weren’t fun for everyone else and… well, they led to some unsavory consequences, didn’t they? 

One of those… Was you. 

I never wanted anyone to abstract! You have to believe me, it… Gosh, I’d never have chosen it if I’d wanted to, either! (It was here you sat in “unsavory” silence, thinking on what you’d want to say next— if anything.) 

Well..! Great talking to you..! My sincerest apologies.

And like that, they would end. You would not feel much better than before. 

And, other days, you would get to the things that really kept you returning to that old hill adorned with that old oak. You would breach the subjects that kept your eyes drawn to that headstone, to that little picture of the pretty woman with intelligent brown eyes and curly hair. 

You would tell that headstone (and that tree, that picture, that hill) about how you were no longer in a manufactured, digitized headache of a landscape. That’s why she had a headstone to begin with, in fact. You’d tell her that her husband was doing well. That he was the kindest person you’d ever met. That he’d been far, far too kind to you, because you were the same kind of person at the core, and he could never overlook someone in need. 

You’d thank her for loving him. Tell her that he still loved her too; that he’d likely never stop loving her, though you’re sure that she’d heard that from him first. You’d thank her for loving him because now, to your immense privilege, you get to love him. 

And you’d tell her that, no matter how much that pit in your stomach screamed at you otherwise, you did not bastardize the nature of his existence. 

You’d thank her for loving him, that it was because of her love that he loved, and it was because of his love that you were here. Under the blue sky and welcoming branches, in front of her. 

You’d thank her for everything. And you’d apologize alongside it.

Your last kind of visit was never alone. 

There were days when he would come with you. These days were not standardized. They were not simply sunny, nor were they simply overcast; they were bright, or rainy, or snowy (gosh, how you loved the elements), they were solemn and joyful and something in-between. 

The two of you would bring a red-checkered picnic blanket, and you would lay a feast in front of you. You’d pour champagne and bite into sandwiches and cake. There would always be a third place set, because there were always three of you, even if she was there in different ways than the two of you (you, of course, could empathize with the nonhuman joining in with the humans, too).

You’d laugh, and you’d eat, and the two of you would share small smiles. You’d watch the butterflies flit across the blue- and yellow-speckled field. 

As you’d sit— contented, loving, happy— you’d watch a monarch butterfly flitter its royal wings and perch upon a third champagne glass. 

And you’d know, in her own way, she was giving you her thanks.