The Counting-Downers

by A. J. Compton

  With all the options, choices, questions, paths, consequences, and decisions you make over the course of a lifetime, I guess in the end, it only ever comes down to two real choices—to live or to die.

  We’re all dying; so if you know the inevitable is coming, why rush it and choose to die before you die? Or to die before you have the chance to live?

  And if you choose to live, you had better do so with every ounce of marrow in your bones. For life without living is dying by default.

  There’s only ever living and dying, with life in between.

  And while there’s a billion ways to die, there are also a billion ways to live. Rarely do we have a choice in the former, but the latter is all in our hands.

  I choose to live like we have forever.

  He chooses to live like there is no tomorrow.

  We choose to live together for as long as we can.

  Making the most of the time we have left to

  L O V E,

  L I V E,

  L I F E.

  And to paraphrase Robert Frost, the one thing I know about life is that…

  It. Goes. On.

  And so must we, living and loving all the way to our destined demise.

  “THESE FLOWERS ARE for you, angel,” I say, crouching to lay the small handpicked bouquet of forget-me-nots and white roses at her feet.

  “Tankoo, Pappa.”

  My dimples deepen as she leans over and kisses my cheek before toddling back to her game on the grass.

  “And these,” I say turning to my beautiful wife, “are for you, my love.” She leans up to take the larger version of the flowers I’ve just given our daughter with a smile.

  “Thanks, Goldilocks. These are beautiful.” A calm peace settles over me as I watch her bend as much as she can to inhale the soft scent of the flowers.

  “They’re the same ones I give you every Tuesday.”

  “I know, but that doesn’t make them any less beautiful.”

  Ever since we came home from our honeymoon under the Northern Lights in Norway four years ago, I’ve kept my promise to be the kind of man who planted flowers for her. Every Tuesday I handpick a bunch from the meadow and give it to Matilda ‘just because.’ When Daisy turned two three months ago, I also started picking a smaller version of Matilda’s bouquet every week.

  As well as their namesake, forget-me-nots have special sentimental value to Matilda and me, while the white roses symbolize an eternal, everlasting love that is stronger than death. I will love both of my girls long after I take my last breath. I’ll have to think of something to give my son ‘just because’ when he arrives.

  “How’s he doing in there?” I sit next to my wife and caress her eight-month pregnant stomach where my son is sleeping.

  “He’s good. He was dancing earlier when I had a glass of homemade orange juice but now he’s settled down. I’m sure he’ll wake up again soon at the sound of your voice.”

  It’s true. He’s only breathing second-hand air, and I already have an incredible connection with him. I can’t even imagine how I’ll feel once he’s in my arms if I’m experiencing this infinite depth of emotion at just the thought of him.

  After Daisy was born, I didn’t think I had any more room in my heart for any more love. I thought it was stretched to full capacity. But I was wrong. When those two lines showed up on the pregnancy test for the second time, my heart made room. It didn’t even have a choice in the matter.

  But with infinite love comes infinite fear. I thought I knew fear. Falling in love and marrying Matilda filled me with fear like I’d never known. It still does. I wake up every day to this incredible life we’ve created together with a smile, before dread descends once I look at her, or to be more specific, at the countdown above her head, and realize that she’ll only experience it for another twenty-one years.

  I don’t know how long I’ll be around, but the fear that accompanies any thoughts of Matilda leaving me, leaving us as a family, leaves a constant chill in my warm blood. Still, however scared I am at the idea of being without her, it’s nothing compared to the desperate dread of our children one day being without her. I’m terrified for them. I don’t want them to end up young orphans as I was, but I know I don’t have any control in the matter.

  I guess that’s the root of my fear, of all fear. How can you be anything other than petrified once you realize that you have little control over your life and Fate? Even if you don’t believe in God or destiny, at the very least you’re still at the mercy of Mother Nature and chance. There comes a moment when we realize we’re not invincible; we’re the exact opposite. Even the strongest amongst us are helpless.

  And thanks to Matilda, I don’t mind me being vulnerable, but I don’t want my kids to be. I’m supposed to be strong for them, to protect them from everything and everyone. But I can’t protect them from life. And I can’t guarantee I won’t leave them to face the difficulties of life alone. All I can do is hope for the best and prepare for the worst.

  Matilda told me about this great idea she’d heard somewhere of creating email accounts for our children and sending them letters, pictures, memories, random thoughts and pieces of advice that we’d want to give them. We’ll give them the login details on their eighteenth birthday, but if the worst happens and neither of us is around for that, the details are written in my will.

  I know Matilda will be around until Daisy turns twenty-two and our son twenty, so at the very least she’ll be able to sit down and go through eighteen years’ worth of memories with them. I’ve already started emailing things to my son like photos of him in his mother’s stomach and telling him how much I already love him. I know Matilda is doing the same. Even if we both have to leave them before they truly start to live and create their own lives, they’ll have tangible pieces of us they can revisit whenever they want.

  It was bittersweet when Daisy was born and we saw that she had 84 years, 9 months, 28 days, 5 hours, 31 minutes, and 12 seconds. The overwhelming euphoric relief that our daughter would live a long life was swiftly dampened by the thought that she’d have to live without her mother for sixty of those years.

  Not for the first time, I take a moment to be thankful that we have an amazing support system around us. Matilda’s mother, Genevieve, still has just over thirty years left, while Oscar, who Daisy adores, still has sixty-two years left. Then there is our close circle of friends who are wonderful aunts and uncles, and will be around for our children if the worst happens and neither of us can be.

  And, at least, they’ll have each other. Once I’d managed to persuade Matilda it was worth having children, we both agreed that we’d only have two who were close in age. At just over two years apart, it’s our hope that they’ll grow up closely knit and support each other for their whole lives.

  It’s also in my will that my wife and daughter will continue to receive flowers sent to them from a florist every Tuesday for the rest of their lives. I’ve set up a fund for my executor to arrange. Even if I’m no longer around to plant and pick them, they’ll always receive ‘just because’ flowers. I’ve made as many provisions as I can for my eventual death, but every day something new comes up that I think or worry about. I guess that’s part of being a parent though.

  I sit down next to Matilda and make idle strokes on her stomach as she lies down on her back in the wild grass. Her eyes are closed in contentment as she soaks up the sunshine. I could look at my daughter forever and I watch in amusement as Daisy blows dandelion seed heads around the meadow and then tries and fails to catch them as she jumps up on her tiny legs. She’s the mirror image of me, but she has Matilda’s infectious, adventurous spirit. She hears my laugh and looks over.

  “Pappa, pway wim me?”

  Matilda laughs. “It’s your turn. She’s had me playing all day and I’m so exhausted. She’s tireless. I thought little girls were supposed to have less energy than boys?”

  “She’s your daughter to the core.”

  She opens her mouth
to deny it and then shuts it just as fast when she realizes the truth in my statement.

  “Exactly.”

  “Pappa! Pway!” Daisy yells again, more impatient with every second that passes.

  “Yes, sweetheart, I’m coming. Remind me why I thought it was a great idea for us to have kids?” I direct the last part to my wife under my breath.

  Her hands resting on her swollen stomach shake with her laughter. “Something about love and a legacy. I wasn’t really listening.” She winks as I laugh at her teasing. “Anyway, it’s too late now.”

  “That it is.”

  I lean over to kiss Matilda when something crashes into my back. It seems I wasn’t fast enough for my daughter. If Matilda thought she hated time, Daisy has an entirely different problem with it. Like all children, it goes far too slowly for her. She’ll give anything to speed it up, while every adult I know would do anything to slow it down. Such is the privilege of childhood though. I almost envy her ignorance.

  I turn my body as she giggles against my back and tries to escape me. I thought Matilda’s name and her voice were my favorite sounds, but they’ve now been overtaken by my daughter’s laugh. I’ll work forever just to hear that sound leave her lips. As her dad, I only want her to laugh, never cry.

  She tries to outmaneuver me as I twist my torso left and right, but I change my direction and catch her in my arms, pulling her into my lap, much to her amusement. She squirms as I tickle her and blow raspberries against her neck.

  “No, Pappa!” She laughs, wanting me to continue.

  After a while, the wriggling turns into cuddles as she sits up and leans into my chest in surrender. She stretches to place plucked daisies, which have been crushed in her hand, into Matilda’s braid so that it matches her own.

  “Hi, Mamma. You sweep?”

  “Hi, baby. And yes, Mommy’s having a little nap.”

  “Bwaby sweep, too?”

  “Yes, he’s also resting.”

  “WAKE UP, BWABY!” She directs her imperious yell in the direction of Matilda’s stomach.

  “Hey, trouble.” I squeeze her with the arm holding her stomach, trying to contain my laughter so I don’t encourage her. “Let your mommy and brother sleep, not everyone has as much energy as you.”

  “Sowwy, Mamma. Sowwy, bwaby.” Stray angelic blonde curls fall in front of large blue eyes and over her cherubic cheeks, as she looks chastised. Except for the mischievous glint in her eyes, which contradicts her words of remorse.

  “That’s okay, sweetheart.” Matilda turns her face, and I know she’s also trying to conceal her amusement.

  “Let’s go play that game.” I help Matilda out as I stand and lift Daisy onto my shoulders.

  “See you later, Baby Bear.” I wink in solidarity. We’re in this together, her and me, sharing the highs and lows parenthood brings.

  “See you later, Goldilocks.” She winks back with a grateful expression.

  Daisy and I catch dandelion seeds, blow bubbles, and hunt for fairies for what feels like several hours, but in reality is only one. I’m offered a brief respite when Oscar comes through one of the gates, which separate our land and his. On most days, we leave them open.

  For the first year of our married life, Matilda lived with me at the cabin, but after she became pregnant with Daisy, we wanted to live closer to our friends and family instead of being so remote.

  In a moment of sad serendipity, Matilda’s elderly next door neighbor, Mrs. James had died around the same time, leaving behind no children or family, which meant that her house went on the market. Thanks to the unbelievable and overwhelming success of my art career, we were able to buy the house next door to Matilda’s childhood home outright as soon as it went up for sale. We still use the forest cabin as a weekend retreat but it’s no longer our main residence. My success also allows me to stay at home with our children just as much as Matilda, whose photography career is gaining widespread recognition and acclaim.

  Things fell into place almost too perfectly, as though we had a helping hand of the divine kind. Whatever the reason, we’re both humbled and grateful for our good fortune. I know it means the world to my wife to not only be just a few steps away from her childhood memories, but to create new ones for our children in a meadow of our own. When it comes to our home, the past, present, and future are aligned with flawless harmony.

  If only that could happen in every area of our lives.

  Exhausted, I’m only too happy to hand over Daisy-duty to a now eleven-year-old Oscar. The small gap in their ages means he’s more like an older brother to my daughter than an uncle, and their dynamic is adorable to watch. He dotes on her. Seeing Genevieve enter our meadow to keep an eye on the children as they play with Leo, I wave before heading back to join my wife on the grass. She stirs as I lie down next to her and entwine my fingers with her the same way our hearts, minds, and lives are.

  “We did good, didn’t we?” she asks through a voice husky with sleep.

  “We did.”

  We really did.

  LATER THAT EVENING, after Daisy has woken up from her afternoon nap, we head to the beach that has been a big part of the backdrop of us. A silent, steady force when everything else around us was chaotic, it’s always been a constant. We still spend a lot of time here, as a couple, and as a family. Today is no different.

  Over the years since we sat in Matilda’s childhood treehouse and thought about what we wanted to leave behind, we’ve completed several items on our legacy list and added more. A few weeks ago, Matilda had this great idea of writing messages to put in a bottle and ship out to sea, ending up wherever they may. All great adventures start with an idea.

  We wanted to include Daisy as much as possible, and although she didn’t grasp the concept we were trying to describe to her, she drew a painting of what I think is the sea, which we rolled up into her own sealed bottle.

  The messages inside Matilda’s and mine are different.

  Hello, mine reads. I’m not sure where this will end up or if you even speak English, wherever in the world you are. That’s the beautiful thing about the oceans. They’re all connected, just as we are.

  If you don’t speak English, I apologize for wasting your time with nonsensical words, but if you do, I hope this message in a bottle finds you well. Is it strange to wish a stranger well? I guess not. Wherever, whomever, whatever you are, I wish you well.

  You may be wondering about me. My name is Tristan, but my wife says I’m not allowed to tell you any more than that. According to her, this exercise of writing messages in bottles is as much about you as it is about us. The point isn’t for us to know or find each other, but to connect, human to human, despite the fact we won’t.

  But even as I write that, I can see the parallels with life. In the end, it’s never about you. The real measures of a life are the size, depth, and strength of your connections with others. My wife has taught me that, and although I’m supposed to use this to pass on advice, I hope it’s a lesson you’ve already learned.

  You can live a half-life without love, but I hope for your sake, you don’t have to. And you shouldn’t have to. Not when love comes in so many different forms. Many people spend and waste a lifetime chasing romantic love. While it’s an incredible experience, there are other types of soul-sustaining love. Love exists in the most unlikely of places. Search for it. Don’t give up.

  For even if it’s just one person, a friend, a family member, or even a pet that you love and who loves you back, who sees you, as you see them, with love, honesty, and acceptance, then you’re incredibly lucky. Because we all just want to be seen, don’t we? By someone, anyone, for who we truly are. We don’t just want people to look at us, we want them to see us, and we don’t just want them to hear us, but listen to the words we aren’t saying that reveal our truest selves.

  For so long, I lived in isolation. Having experienced love in my early years, I was convinced I never would again. I used to view these countdowns above all of our head
s as a curse, rather than a blessing, because they’d taken everyone I loved and who loved me away.

  But my whole life changed when I met a girl. One who taught me so many things, especially that death is not an excuse; it’s an opportunity. Death is not the reason you shouldn’t live, it’s an opportunity to live your life to the absolute fullest.

  We aren’t given a say in how much time we have left, but we do get to decide what we do with it. I’m running out of space, so I guess all that’s left to say is I hope you choose wisely. And live a life full of love. Because ‘a life full of love’ is just another way to say ‘living.’

  Matilda allowed me to read hers before we put them into the bottle.

  I’m fascinated by the idea of you, it began. Who are you? Where do you live? What’s your story? Romance and melancholy surround the idea that I’ll never know. I love the idea of speaking and sharing my innermost thoughts with someone I’ll never meet.

  One day, I’ll disappear, as will you, but this tiny scrap of paper that signifies a chance encounter, a random moment between two unfamiliar souls, will live on. Well, unless this bottle hasn’t crashed into a rock or a ship, in which case this piece of paper will quickly disappear too, the inked words washed away with the waves.

  You’re probably wondering about me. My name is Matilda and my husband and I are writing messages in a bottle as part of our legacy. If you’re reading this, I’m sure you’re wondering if we’re famous or special enough to leave a legacy. Where I’m concerned, it’s no to the former, yes to the latter. Because legacies are not just for legends. Whether a million people know your name, or only one person does, you still have the right to leave your mark on the world, even if it’s only in your tiny corner of it, in the tiniest of ways.

  Not all of us will achieve great heights and feats. Most of us will never leave our hometown or country, let alone conquer Everest. And you know what? That’s okay. Because real life is what happens in between moments of greatness.