Down by the River

Just the other day, I brought Grandmother to the river, telling her that it is not advisable that she would always stay inside our hut. I brought a basket of food for the two of us, and for the first time, I spread the blanket over the grass again, helped Grandmother sit on it, and enjoyed lunch with her as we chatted about the days when she was still young, lively and in love.

Never once did she ask me about the man I secretly met in the river, the man who built that shed and left that blanket, or the man who painted the portrait which hangs on the wall of our hut -- a portrait inside a beautifully carved oak frame, seemingly out of place in our simple hut made of bamboo and woods. But as I gathered the blanket into my arms, determined that I should take it home and wash it with the rest of our clothes, I finally talked about Marcus to the woman who taught me everything I knew.

"I loved him with all my heart, you know," I quietly told her as we began walking home.

Grandmother's gentle hand on my arm finally prompted the tears I had been holding back, to freely flow from my eyes after all those months. She gave me some time to shed those tears, giving me comfort with every pat on my arm, every stroke on my back.

"I know," she said, smiling gently at me as she wiped my tears away at last. "I have always known."

I smiled back at her and took her arm as the two of us slowly made our way home. "His name is Marcus."

And I chatted away, telling her about that first meeting and about all the things that Marcus told and showed me. At last, I know I would never look back to those days with guilt as I finally revealed the secret I kept from my grandmother.

As I lie down on my cot at night, I will always dream of the life Marcus offered, but as soon as the sun rises, I will gently put those dreams away to face the reality of the life I chose -- without regret, but always with the lovely memories of him.