When I Was


When I was a mere seventeen, standing quietly to stare up at the castle, overcome by emotion after the Leaving Ceremony, I told you I loved you. You stared at me from your superior height and sneered your customary sneer before turning away, leaving me to pick up the pieces of my shattered heart.

When I was eighteen, in celebration after the defeat of the Dark Lord, with my heart silently pleading for you to accept me, I told you I loved you. You raised your eyebrow and smirked, lifting your glass of brandy in mock salute, before kicking my carefully mended heart again.

When I was twenty-two, struggling under the burdens of my new career, looking at you from the edge of the stool I had escaped to, I told you I loved you. You gaped at me from your position beside me at the dingy bar, then tried to cover your shock by retreating with a final insult to my intelligence, while I turned to my drink in despair.

When I was twenty-six, with tears streaming from my face as I desperately tried to save your life from your jump off the tower, I told you I loved you. You looked at me with undisguised disdain despite that mask of pain, and told me to leave you forever.

When I was twenty-eight, my shoulders shaking with uncontrollable sobs, right before I planted that slap across your face, I told you I loved you. You grabbed my hand, pulling me to your frame, and quietly apologized for your lack of judgment, holding me in your arms while I cried.

When I was thirty, sheathed in white with flowers in my somewhat unruly hair, standing tall and proud in the church, holding your hand, I told you I loved you. You smiled, a different smile, softer, warmer, and tilted my head up as you kissed me.

When I was thirty-two, the night I conceived our son, the night you drove me to the heights of pleasure for the thousandth time, over and over, I told you I loved you. You reached up to brush a lock of stray hair from my sweaty brow, and nuzzled my ear, touching my stomach with uncharacteristic tenderness.

When I was thirty-seven, leaning over on a bench in the park while our children gamboled around us, I told you I loved you. You blushed, and tried to hide how happy you were, but you shyly took my hand in your first gesture of public affection.

When I was forty, smiling happily from under the covers of our massive bed, sleepy and sated, I told you I loved you. You grinned boyishly, a grin you reserved only for me, and lifted the surprise birthday breakfast you had painstakingly prepared without the use of magic.

When I was forty-six, tired from a hard day’s work tending to our three children and scrubbing dishes, I told you I loved you. You groaned and teased that I was bribing you so you would take the kids out so they would be out of my untidy hair, but as I emerged from the kitchen minutes later, you had done exactly that.

When I was fifty, looking up from cleaning the dining table to see you leaning against the doorframe with a huge bouquet of flowers on Valentines Day, I told you I loved you. You crushed me into your arms and plunged your hand into my hair, afraid I might disappear.

When I was sixty, after passing a group of teenage girls in skimpy clothing and upon seeing their ample bosoms, I smiled sadly, and sighing at their exuberance, I told you I loved you. You rumpled my grey-streaked hair, pulling me to rest on your hard shoulder and whispered that I was more beautiful to you that day than I ever was.

When I was seventy, sitting on the clichéd rocking chair, watching you struggle with the knitting I had persuaded you to learn, I told you I loved you. You smiled through your glasses and brushed the end of your finger to the tip of your nose as if to brush off a fleck of dust, but you really meant you adored me.

When I was seventy-six, sitting alongside you on the porch and staring out at the beautiful sunset, my fingers entwining with yours, I told you I loved you. You turned to me, with your face filled with lines, but still undoubtedly the most handsome man I’d ever known, and your ebony eyes tell me what I’ve always wanted to hear.

When I was eighty, sitting down to read the love letter you hid from me over sixty years ago, and looked up to see your nervous face, I told you I loved you. You handed me another one, completely different, but much more significant because it was dated a few days before, and it showed you still cared.

When I was eighty-eight, touching your gnarled hand and smiling despite the tears running down my face, I told you I loved you. You moved your hand to grasp mine, looking up from the bed, and although unbelievably weak, you lifted my hand to touch it to your lips in a universal gesture of affection.

When I was ninety, as I touched the cold stone and stared up into the sky to reach your face, I told you I loved you. You never answered, but I felt your presence around me, as you caress my face for the last time.

When I was ninety-nine, sailing up into the sky in search for you, feeling happiness beyond words when I found you, I told you I loved you. You met me halfway, and finally, after all these years, could you finally say the words, the words I craved for so long, the words I had kept for you alone, the words you had kept from me.

When I was ninety-nine, you told me you loved me.