Status: ended
Wendy and Peter
Wendy and Peter
He was coughing blood into my hands. I kept them there anyway although it was dripping through and over the sides of my fingers. He was pale and getting weaker. Soon his skin was whiter than the beach despite his perpetual tan. Soon I would have to leave while he would stay here on this lonely beach that once held laughter and sunshine. But he wouldn’t know.
I wanted to take him in my arms and tell him how much he meant to me and how I couldn’t bear to let him go. I wanted him to squeeze me back and tell me that he cared too. That he loved me too. But I knew that if I did that I would cry. And I knew that if I cried now, I would never stop.
He shuddered and my heart quaked with him. More blood splattered into my hands and on the rose sand. I knew he hated that I was seeing him like this, his pride bruised and broken. This fairytale boy I met the same day that I first flew. The dream boy that wanted a mother so much that he stole one. The boy that took my heart with him. The only exception to this story was that the boy then was now a boy no longer. The only drawback to the lovely, fairytale ending. Two youths fly off, forever in love; no. As soon as we recognized our love for one another he started to age. And age and age. The years he lost came springing back and the only thing now that is tying me to this beach is the memory of Peter the boy not the elderly citizen. But that’s what we were: Wendy the young woman and Peter the old man. Peter in the last throes of life and Wendy on the verge of beginning hers.
Soon he would die, we both knew, but never this early. It came too early… we weren’t prepared. We were in the midst of the golden years when we were the same age and then a little older, and older. For me, the years flowed in the usual pace but for Peter the years sped by, like someone had tied a cinderblock to the accelerator of his car and walked away.
So we had to watch each other fade and grow, in my case, in each other’s outstretched arms. Until we only had the moon for company on this lonely beach with rose-colored sand and clear blue-green water; the perfect place for a boy who never wanted to grow up and love. The beginning and the fitting end was Neverland where nature proved once again that the course of life always moves on. That’s what life is: change. I’ve learned this many times over.
I learned this while John went to military school and later, the army. I learned this as Nana was also gripped with old age and passed on. I learned this while Father lost his job and Mother turned to the harp. I learned this as I changed in so many more ways than one.
And now I was back in Neverland with the boy, now man, of my dreams, watching him die. Holding his blood in my hands. Watching as he shuddered one last time now. Seeing in his eyes the last remnants of the carefree boy who shared my first kiss, and second, and third. Seeing in his eyes that he knew I would move on, eventually, despite the pain I was feeling now. Seeing the last dregs of life pack up and drift away. And only then did I take him in my arms and cry.
I wanted to take him in my arms and tell him how much he meant to me and how I couldn’t bear to let him go. I wanted him to squeeze me back and tell me that he cared too. That he loved me too. But I knew that if I did that I would cry. And I knew that if I cried now, I would never stop.
He shuddered and my heart quaked with him. More blood splattered into my hands and on the rose sand. I knew he hated that I was seeing him like this, his pride bruised and broken. This fairytale boy I met the same day that I first flew. The dream boy that wanted a mother so much that he stole one. The boy that took my heart with him. The only exception to this story was that the boy then was now a boy no longer. The only drawback to the lovely, fairytale ending. Two youths fly off, forever in love; no. As soon as we recognized our love for one another he started to age. And age and age. The years he lost came springing back and the only thing now that is tying me to this beach is the memory of Peter the boy not the elderly citizen. But that’s what we were: Wendy the young woman and Peter the old man. Peter in the last throes of life and Wendy on the verge of beginning hers.
Soon he would die, we both knew, but never this early. It came too early… we weren’t prepared. We were in the midst of the golden years when we were the same age and then a little older, and older. For me, the years flowed in the usual pace but for Peter the years sped by, like someone had tied a cinderblock to the accelerator of his car and walked away.
So we had to watch each other fade and grow, in my case, in each other’s outstretched arms. Until we only had the moon for company on this lonely beach with rose-colored sand and clear blue-green water; the perfect place for a boy who never wanted to grow up and love. The beginning and the fitting end was Neverland where nature proved once again that the course of life always moves on. That’s what life is: change. I’ve learned this many times over.
I learned this while John went to military school and later, the army. I learned this as Nana was also gripped with old age and passed on. I learned this while Father lost his job and Mother turned to the harp. I learned this as I changed in so many more ways than one.
And now I was back in Neverland with the boy, now man, of my dreams, watching him die. Holding his blood in my hands. Watching as he shuddered one last time now. Seeing in his eyes the last remnants of the carefree boy who shared my first kiss, and second, and third. Seeing in his eyes that he knew I would move on, eventually, despite the pain I was feeling now. Seeing the last dregs of life pack up and drift away. And only then did I take him in my arms and cry.