The Long Evening | Adventures

A mature fruit orchard in golden afternoon light with a laid table and chairs set out under two large trees and a swing hanging nearby. — The orchard, grown in A table set beneath the orchard trees.

The orchard, grown in A table set beneath the orchard trees.

By our eighties, perhaps the orchard will be doing well enough that we complain about how much fruit there is to deal with. The van could be in the barn, waiting for someone younger to borrow it. There might be books on the shelf we can remember working on before the children were born.

Or the house may have grown older without children in it. We might have chosen that life together, or wanted children and never had them. Either way, I'd be glad for the years with her. I'd hope for people who came to visit, work we cared about, and a few familiar walks we were glad we could still take together.

A close view along a shelf of well-read cloth-bound book spines at a raking angle, worn at the corners, with a folded note protruding at the base. — A shelf of things we made Books that have been taken down and read again.

A shelf of things we made Books that have been taken down and read again.

Between now and then, there'll be years we wouldn't choose. Our parents may need looking after. One of us may become ill. We could spend a stretch of time going to appointments, filling out forms, and arriving home too tired to do much with the evening. I'd want her to know I expected those years to be ours as well.

While we're able, we should talk about what we'd each want if we became seriously ill or couldn't speak for ourselves. We'd put it in writing and return to it when something changed. I wouldn't enjoy that conversation, but I'd rather have it with her than leave her to guess at a hospital when she was already frightened.

The practical things need sharing too. Even if I've always handled the money, she should know where it is and how to manage it. Both of us should understand the bills, the paperwork, and the arrangements we've made. We could check that by letting the other person handle things for a while, finding the gaps when there was still someone nearby to ask.

One of us will probably have to live without the other. I can say I'd rather go first, though that leaves her with the part I'm afraid of. I'd want her provided for and able to make decisions without having to reconstruct years of things I never thought to explain.

I also hope she'd be able to look back on the marriage and remember having company in it. It's possible to share a house for years and become very good at exchanging information without saying much about yourself. I'd like to notice when we'd fallen into that, before it became how we spoke to each other.

A stone house at night seen from a dark garden, several windows lit warm gold against cold blue walls, a seated figure in the lowest window and a bare tree alongside. — A quiet room One figure at a window in a house with several rooms lit.

A quiet room One figure at a window in a house with several rooms lit.

We could make time together that didn't depend on finishing everything else. An evening on the calendar, or a week away when the children were old enough and circumstances allowed. Sometimes we might need to admit we'd been distracted or lonely. I'd want either of us to be able to say it while there was still a chance to do something about the week we were in.

At seventy, she may have an interest I never saw coming. I'd like to ask about it without assuming I already know her answer. There could still be books to talk about, things to make, and people who needed our help. We wouldn't have to be as quick as we once were to enjoy being useful.

An overhead view down onto a red patterned rug and pale stone floor, a pair of bare feet, a sleeping dog, and the edge of a laid table with a book and reading glasses on it. — Still asking her something A book set aside, with the dog asleep nearby.

Still asking her something A book set aside, with the dog asleep nearby.

If she outlives me, I hope she'll have company she wants and things that draw her into the day. She might need a long time on her own first. I wouldn't want to set terms from here for how she was allowed to be happy afterward. I'd be glad for whatever helped her live well.

A close view of very old hands cutting into a piece of wood with a fine tool at a workbench covered in shavings and chisels. — At the workbench Hands still at work on a carving.

At the workbench Hands still at work on a carving.

I'd like some of what we made to remain useful. Someone could live in the house, tend the trees, or find a book we'd written and get something from it. The van may eventually be beyond saving. I could forgive that if it had done enough travelling first.

There's another possibility I can't leave out. I've written all of this before meeting her, and I may never do so. Some things could still begin: the writing, the research, taking care of my health, making a home where people felt welcome. Others would remain things I had hoped for. I wouldn't need to pretend that hadn't hurt, or that the years were empty because they took a different shape.

If she does come, I expect these chapters will acquire corrections. By then some will be hers, some mine, and plenty will belong to circumstances neither of us anticipated. I'd be interested to read this again with her much later and hear which parts we remembered differently.

If we have children, they'll have watched us make those adjustments. They'll know more about our failures than anything I could put on this page, along with the times we tried again, apologized, and enjoyed each other. Whatever they choose to carry into their own homes, I'd be pleased if some of that came with them.

For now, the orchard is still imaginary and there's no van in the barn. I've got work to do on the parts I can begin. The rest is here for her to read, change, and add to, if she'd like. I'd love to hear what she has in mind.

A wide porch at dusk with a rocking chair, a lit lantern and a folded blanket, looking out over a darkening valley under early stars. — Two chairs on the porch The porch lit as the valley grows dark.