Cammie

by Jarvy Jared

16 - Once Upon A Time

Let me tell you a story. You may have heard it before, but listen anyway.

Once upon a time, a mare and a stallion met in a tea shop and fell in love. It was a rare kind of love, the one you hear about in the stories—the old ones, I mean, the ones that came well before us. It flowed gently into both of them, like a river, I suppose—ugh, I was never fond of aquatic similes, as you know.

But they fell in love. They had a son, who was beautiful and perfect in his own way, and always would be. They were happy with this son and with each other.

But perhaps it was because they were this—happy—that life reminded them of the transitory nature of things. Happiness is here today, gone tomorrow. Is it selfish to think it should stay? Maybe—maybe that isn’t for us to decide, though. Maybe it’s not something we’re supposed to judge.

I’m rambling, aren’t I? Sorry. You know how I am.

The stallion, one day, collapsed. He was taken to the local doctors who pronounced a grim diagnosis. Only the stallion was not surprised to learn that he had a rare sickness, that it was terminal, for he had known he’d had it before he’d met the mare. He just hadn’t known how long he’d had.

The mare was broken. How could this be, she asked, especially since they’d only just had their child?

The stallion could not answer her, but very quickly realized that he had no need to. What he needed, instead, was to show her that even the smallest sprout shows there really is no death. That the words of one of his favorite poets was eternally true no matter what darkness lay ahead.

In this way, the stallion made peace with his impending death, and did his best, in the time he had left, to set his affairs in order so that she wouldn’t have to.

… Well, you know how this goes, so I won’t continue this pretense. I died years ago, after all, and was buried, as requested, in a small plot of land behind your tea shop. I left you regrettably behind, but even so, I tried to guide you, anticipating as best I could what was to come, post-me.

I wrote a will and put in it a final decree. Of course, it was done with a poetic flourish. Only the shameless, and those who do not think themselves good at poetry, would write with such flourish. And besides, these were my final words. They had to at least sound like me!

I spent a long time coming up with them, though. I think that was because my mind was already going. I didn’t have as much clarity of thought as I might have wanted. Now I’m thinking, with the hindsight that comes with death (now that I am no longer arrogantly alive, ha ha!), that, because of this, you misunderstood my words. If so, then I must apologize.

Here is what I said. I pulled it from a poem (of course I did!): “Remain tight in a bud.”

Really, what was I thinking? I wasn’t, obviously… but somehow you understood this as me saying, cloister yourself off until the seasons have all faded, open again when next I find you. Beautiful, tragic; I suppose it fits me, especially at the end… but ultimately, it was not what I meant.

I gave you the wrong part of the poem. I should have given you the whole line. Let me rectify that. You ready? Here it is, with my own spin to it (there must always be a spin!):

And the day will come when the risk to remain tight in a bud is more painful than the risk it took to blossom.

You have loved and lost much, my dear Cammie, and I am sorry that you had to face it all and after without me. But I didn't mean to suggest you refuse to let your heart sing! I never wanted you to close off from feeling the electric current of life and all of its beauty. I never, ever, wanted you to never love again—only the opposite.

You have so much love in you. Perhaps that was why I was not worried about how you would take care of our son after I was gone; I knew you would love him unselfishly. But you had so much love—so much, in fact, that, even as you have tried to lock it away, it has naturally seeped out. Love drove you to befriend those quirky companions of yours—to talk to them, to listen, to comfort. Love drove you to this job, love for our son, love for his wish, however impossible it may be. Your name may generally mean peacefulness and rest, but don’t forget that the chamomile flower will bloom all the way to the first frost—and then return, renewed, ready to sprout and spread and reinvigorate its world.

(Oh, yes. I know you found my “flower meanings” tiresome. Ha ha! But I use them anyway, because despite their triteness, I find their simplicity endearing. Sometimes I think that’s what drew you to me.)

My point is, you have loved so much, lost so much, given so much of your own love away. Isn’t it now time that you let somepony love you? Let yourself be loved? Let yourself choose. Let that Gaea mare in. You will not have loved me any less.

Let yourself blossom, my dear. You deserve it, no matter how much you think otherwise. Let yourself blossom; let yourself live; let yourself love, and love her, as you loved me. You are not meant to end here—that much I know for certain!

You agree? Excellent! Then it’s time for me to go. My train, after all, is about to leave.

One day, I know, we’ll meet again. Perhaps at this very same station, about to board this very same train. But that won’t be for a while. And I hope when I return, I’ll be bringing you and Gaea with me on my next trip. It would be good to meet her properly, not in the middle of the desert like last time.

Until then… My dear, I think it is time you woke up.