“Nothing distinguishes memories from ordinary moments.
Only later do they become memorable by the scars they leave.”

‘La Jetée’ (1962)

 

Constraints:

• I knew someone. I told her once she was my heart.
• When we really shouldn’t have, we went away together to a small cottage in the countryside.
• In less than a month she would be dead.
• Two months after that I sat down and considered a small moment from that time.
• I returned to that moment every week, each time, starting with a blank page, ignoring what I had written previously.
• I continued for a year, contemplating that moment, conducting an experiment on myself.
• This is the result.
• This meditation is what it is. It has no name.
• I miss her every day.

 

Week One.

It’s exactly two months ago today.

Fuck.

Exactly two months ago today. Neither of us know what was going to happen, what was happening. It must have been happening by then. It cannot have happened, have commenced, after that. There wasn’t enough time. There couldn’t have been enough time. But exactly two months ago tonight[1].

Neither of us know what was going to happen. There was more to come. There was more to come but not here. This isn’t the place.

Exactly two months ago today. Exactly two months ago tonight we are sitting in the garden[2].

Exactly two months ago tonight we are sitting in the garden outside the cottage. We have just eaten. We will clean up later and wash the dishes in the morning. We will put everything away later too. We will go upstairs to the bedroom, the one bedroom in the cottage and make love and go to sleep. But that is later. Everything is later. What is important is now. We have finished eating so we decide to sit in the garden, we decide to sit outside the cottage for a while, while there is still warmth in the air, while the sky is bright and the sun is setting. While we can enjoy the countryside. While we can. This is what we do.

It is a small cottage on a farm, on a farm in north Wales. We are here for a few nights because we can. Nothing more beyond that. We are here for a few nights because we can come here instead of going anywhere else. This is what we want, the peace and quiet. This is what we want, to be apart, to be alone. To be apart from others. This is what we want.

The cottage is on a farm. It is likely the original farmhouse. The owner and his family, I see him and his father during the day, I hear him mention a wife who I do not see. He explains his wife is shielding, or at least cautious. He is a cautious too of us being here as we are, but our contact is minimal. I see nothing of him or his father except watching them pass earlier in the day. No, the day before. Before she arrives. I see nothing of them today. Today it is just us. A more modern, larger, house was built behind us, it is now the main family home, the new farmhouse. The original farmhouse, the original farm cottage is the one they rent out. An adjoining building is yet to be renovated, presumably into something similar to this cottage which can also be rented out. For now there is only this cottage.

We sit facing. We sit facing, east, or at least northeast, I think. While we are in a little shade from the cottage there is still sunlight. Maybe we are not facing east or northeast at all. We sit looking at the garden. While some planting has been done, it is really just a green space between the cottage and the hedge, the boundary to the fields beyond, but tonight it is our garden. In the field to our left are cattle, were cattle earlier, but they have either moved on or been taken elsewhere by now. The green space is our garden, a lawn and some flowers and space to park a car, my car, and sit outside and enjoy the countryside.

She asks if I can move my car and I do. She wants to just look at the grass and the hedge and the fields beyond. I tell her I saw rabbits here yesterday evening. If we sit still enough, I wonder if they will return, though I doubt it. Waiting for us to go back inside. Waiting for the light to fade or the temperature to drop or for us to simply want to go up to the single bedroom before they come out.

There are two plastic chairs and a table set aside for guests to use and sit at outside. All white, all faded slightly and stained from exposure, but sturdy enough to sit on. Clean enough to sit on.

I pull the chairs away from the table and place them side by side. We sit with our backs to the cottage; the glass door open behind us. We sit side by side looking at the grass, the lawn, the grass and the hedge and the fields beyond. There is a slow, summer breeze. We feel nothing of it, being sheltered by the cottage, but can see the tops of the trees in the hedgerow moving gently.

There may be music playing from inside, something I set up with my phone and a pair of small portable speakers. There may be music, something low, jazz perhaps because I know she’ll like it. I know I put something similar on earlier. I know I put on Astral Weeks earlier, but we’ve moved beyond that. I can’t remember what it was or what it might have been. Only two months ago.

We have drinks with us, I know that. Two glasses. She is drinking water. I am finishing some lemonade. We didn’t bring any wine this time. She is unwell. She has a slight tummy problem. She has been to the doctor and everything is alright. She tells me. She has had tests. She had to insist on tests, she tells me. And everything is alright. She has some medication. That is all. She is experiencing some stomach discomfort. She tells. She tells me. She is taking the tablets as prescribed by the doctor, but apart from some stomach discomfort, some slight bloating and constipation she is fine. She tells me she is fine.

She is being careful with what she is eating. That is fine. I ask before, before we meet. I ask if she wants to cancel if she’s feeling unwell, but she says no, she says she will be fine. She isn’t drinking so I don’t drink. I do not like to drink alone. I never like to drink alone. The day is warm. The lemonade is fine. I feel no need or desire to drink if she isn’t drinking. It is fine. She is fine. She tells me.

We sit outside with our backs to the cottage looking at the grass and the hedgerow and the fields beyond. Our chairs are close enough for us to hold hands. And we do. Our chairs are close enough for us to touch. And we do. Our chairs are close enough for me to lean across and kiss her on the cheek and thank her for dinner and tell her how beautiful she looks. She apologises for being unwell. But she smiles.

But she smiles.

We kiss.

I can’t remember what we talk about. If I could I would remember and record and repeat what we talk about, but I can’t.

It was only two months ago. Two months ago tonight.

Fuck.

 

Week Two.

-There were rabbits here last night, I tell her, here in the garden.

Three. Three rabbits, all around the same size, adults, I think. They came out in the evening, right around now, possibly a little earlier. They stayed around for a while and disappeared again.

-They might be waiting for us to go in so they can come out again, I say.

I tell her I spotted the rabbits while I was on the phone. She didn’t arrive until this morning. I got over yesterday afternoon. I sat in the garden, in the same white plastic garden chairs, but further out, still in the afternoon shade. I was reading a book. It was hot. I didn’t want to get burned, but I wanted something of the warmth and the fresh air. I positioned one of the white plastic garden chairs, placing it within reach of the plastic garden table, positioned it so I was still in the shade of the cottage but had the warmth and the air around me and could see out over the hedgerow and the fields while I read. Later I spotted the rabbits through the kitchen window and nearly mentioned them to the person at the other end of the line.

We laugh, that would have been silly, she says. I’m not meant to be anywhere near rabbits. I’m not meant to be anywhere near the countryside, let alone in another country. It would have been silly. Or at least it would have required a convoluted lie on my part to explain it. It wouldn’t have been the first time. But I said nothing. I finished my call and hung up. I went into the living room of the cottage and sat down and relaxed, and waited, waited for the morning and for her to arrive[3].

It is a nice little garden. The hedges divide us from the farm, from the fields. The family who owns the farm live in a larger house behind us, we’re facing the other way, neither seeing nor hearing anything of them. I did spot the father of the farmer yesterday evening, I had been told he was likely to be about. I did see the farmer, a man probably around my own age, this morning when I drove out to collect her. But apart from that we are alone. It is a very pretty cottage. I think it was probably the original farmhouse, the family house. One half of it has been converted now into a holiday cottage. The other half is closed off at the moment. In correspondence before I arrived the owner, the farmer, told me they were, they are, hoping to renovate the other half of the old house into a separate cottage. It is a pretty location, and I can see the appeal. Though it may lose part of its charm if two groups end up staying so close together.

She spotted the place online. Well, she found a few similar cottages in the area, on the island, and I followed up, eventually choosing this one. It is very pretty[4].

After dinner we decide to sit outside for a while before going to bed. It is peaceful here. It is quiet here. Somewhere in the distance, I guess somewhere straight in front of us as we look, we hear a motorbike passing, running loud, running fast. The main road, or as close to a main road as there is in the area, runs somewhere past the hedge, and the field, and the other fields, in front of us. The sound of the motorbike fades in the distance.

It is peaceful here. It is quiet everywhere now. But it is peaceful here.

It’s nice to just sit outside. We pull the chairs close together so we sit side by side. I can hold her hand. I can stroke her arm. I can lean over and kiss her. We sit looking at the garden and the hedgerow and the fields. It is peaceful.

She asks me if I’m still hungry. I say I’m fine. She thinks the meal may have been too small. She made a risotto which she brought with her and reheated. I tell her it was delicious. She gave me the larger portion as she isn’t very hungry at the moment. I tell her I’m fine. I tell her it was delicious. It was delicious. For something she made at least a day ago, packed in a plastic container and brought here in her case and reheated, it was delicious.

She’s conscious of her stomach. She is in some pain, but she says she’s fine. She is a little bloated, but she says she’s fine. She’s seen a doctor and has been prescribed tablets, but she says she’s fine. She wonders about taking a half or a whole of one of her tablets, a laxative, I think. I think she worries. No, she does worry. I think she worries about spoiling the time for us, for me. I’d told her that if she were feeling unwell we could cancel. We can do this again if she needs. She says she’s fine. We sit and enjoy the evening. It is a lovely evening. It has been a lovely day.

She tells me she brought the dress. A pretty green summer dress with little white flowers she’d worn for the first time when we last met. It was the first time I’d seen her wearing that dress and I told her at the time it was stunning. I told her she looked so beautiful in that green dress with the little white flowers. She brings the dress along this time too. We change before dinner. It has been warm, and we have been walking. We change before dinner. But when she tries on the pretty green summer dress with the little white flowers, she finds it is a bit too snug, a bit too tight. She is feeling a little bloated today, and the pretty green summer dress does not fit properly. She has another pretty dress packed anyway, something slightly looser, and she wears that instead[5].

Sitting beside me in the evening, looking at the garden and the hedgerow and the fields beyond. She looks so beautiful. I tell her. She is conscious of feeling a little bloated. I tell her it will be fine. She has been to the doctor. She has done what she is meant to do, she has seen a doctor and has been prescribed medication. She walked, we walked further than she thought she would be able to earlier today and she feels fine about it. We have enjoyed a lovely meal and I am more than content.

I lean across and kiss her again. We are talking about something, I can’t think what, and I make her laugh. I lean across and kiss her on the cheek.

We will sit here a little while longer until it starts to get cooler and until we want to go up to bed. It is peaceful and quiet, and she is beautiful and happy, and I am more than content.

 

Week Three.

I’m glad I was so wrong about the weather. I wasn’t wrong, but I had been watching it. I had been watching it closely. One of the last things I buy before I leave to come here is a fold-up rain jacket. I have it upstairs still in my bag. No, I think I left it in the car. I showed it to her, all rolled up tightly in a little bag, or possibly an inside pocket. Small enough for me to carry with me in case I need it. In case I needed it. She appreciates the practicality of it, I know she would. She has something similar, but again she leaves it in her bag instead of bringing it with us earlier. We had the car. In a worst-case scenario if it had started to rain, we would have just retreated to the car and returned to the cottage.

I had been keeping a close eye on the weather forecast for the weekend all week, especially in the past couple of days, when you would think the forecast would be more accurate. And it was, whatever rain there may have been passing well to the south, or well to the north. Neither really mattering. What matters is we have a beautiful day. From the time I collect her at the station this morning to now as the sun sets it has been a beautiful day. Bright, sunny, clear blue skies, but without the heat being in any way oppressive. Without me burning, or either of us burning[6].

[1] After: When it’s all done I come back to the beginning and start these footnotes. I start this review on Samhain. I do not believe, but I light a candle, in case the old gods were right.

[2] After: I don’t know where this starts from. Two months after we last sit down together I start to write. I will sit down once a week and return to this moment afresh. I don’t know where this will lead, if anywhere. I don’t know why I am doing this. It changes nothing. she is still dead. She is still dead.

[3] After: So many of these little things over the years, the little omissions. Memories of places I don’t share because I’m not meant to have been there. Even in this case, looking at rabbits outside a kitchen window. My kitchen does not have a window.

[4] After: ‘Pretty’ is a word I rarely use, except in the context of her, it is so very much her word.

[5] After: She planned ahead, bringing a second dress just in case. It would have really annoyed her not to be able to dress for dinner. For her own sake I’m glad she was able to feel pretty.

[6] After: She always accused me of overthinking, sometimes being serious, sometimes teasing.

____________________________

[Untitled]: A Meditation, a work of experimental nonfiction, was published by LJMcD Communications in November 2024 and is available now.

Colm O’Shea’s short fiction has appeared in gorse, Winter Papers, The Stinging Fly, Vigilantia (Chroma Editions), Sublunary Editions (Firmament), The Aleph and 3AM Magazine, among others, and has been broadcast on RTE Radio. An essay was also published in The Tangerine. He was one of the inaugural winners of the Irish Writers’ Centre Novel Fair competition in 2012. He won The Aleph Writing Prize 2019. His first short story collection is forthcoming from Gorse Editions in 2025. He can be found at his website, and on Twitter @colm_oshea and IG @colmposhea