When you chance passing into the unknown, that is where you find bliss. In the fathomless waters of deep emotion the hazards are as great as the guerdon. Guerdon, a word that she taught me. Poetic, with French roots; a reward. I did not hesitate for a moment, though I have never been inclined to take risks.

I did not see the note she had written till I touched the napkin to my lips. She must have watched me many times to know that I would see the slip of paper that she had hidden beneath it. The napkin was white, of course, folded into a perfect soft triangle. As I finished my tomato and basil salad I picked it up and gave it a single customary shake, watched the fine cloth slide free of its folds and touched it once to my lips. My eye was caught by her distinctive handwriting and I hesitated with that napkin held up before my mouth for a moment longer than I usually would have. I gathered myself and swapped note for napkin. The style of her hand was striking, bold and swift on the page. There were no curling fripperies in the way she formed her letters; each character was clear and brisk, hooked to the next with a simple tail, drawn with firm lines and precise curves. It said,

I have seen you here before.

I look for you every Thursday.

The sight of you glistens miracles in me.




Robin.

The moments when life changes, all at once, are rare. Change goes on all the time, a slow teasing of this into that. Then, when you look back, you see that the world is different, you are different, and the more time you are looking back across.... That is how it normally works, how we expect it to work, right up until the whole world changes in a moment. She changed my world with that note.

The first time I drove her out to Atropos House she sat in the passenger seat so quietly, half hypnotized by the darkness rippling past. The only light was from the car headlamps and the moon. So, we drove in a sliver of amber light and I sounded the horn at every curve of the road. She had never driven a country road by night. She was fascinated the first time I sounded the horn as I locked the wheel in hard to the left to coast round the tight dark bend. The long drive had never been so charged. Flushed with love I watched her and the road in equal measure and at each turn I sounded the horn.

That night at my house on the lake was the first we had spent together. I used to wear my hair coiled in a crown around my head. It had been silver a long time, even then. When I became shy of her she smiled and unpinned my hair, marveled at the way it caught the light, ran her hands across it and watched as it clung in fine static strands to her fingers. I found myself preening and vain for the first time in so long.

That was fifteen years ago, minus a few moons. We have visited Atropos house every year since, for our anniversary. All these years, with the lightest touch, she has had the power to jolt me back across the years to youth and vanity.

What if I had not touched the napkin to my lips and seen her note? Rewards come in proportion to risks. When I read her note I did not know it but I tilted on the brink of a void. Love unlooked for does not stop to pay heed to silver hair. She had fourty-four fewer years and the folly of youth, which is as blind as love is reputed to be. Perhaps great age is as foolish as youth, for I did not hesitate, though I have never been inclined to take risks. She is my guerdon.

We have come here early this year. My hair does not jump with static life these days, like the rest of me it is too tired. But still she is here, able to transport me, at the end of a life well lived, to youth.

Void filled to the brim, she has given me widening heaven.