The meadow was nothing extraordinary when placed alongside other meadows. It held grass, but upon closer inspection, there were patches of bare soil, revealing the land’s thinness—unfertile, lacking the richness of deep earth. The grass contended with moss, clover, and countless plants that many would dismiss as weeds. The very idea of calling them weeds made him uncomfortable as he walked this stretch of land that had always been his. He gazed at the barren hedgerow, longing for a time when things had been different. A time when the hedges would once again be covered in thick foliage, teeming with life, both present and future. There was hope here, a hope that the hedge would once again transform into a sanctuary and that the grass would follow suit, growing lush and thick, healing the land as time healed him reversing the wear and tear of age in ways he never could. He knew the circle of life was finite, and he had passed the final curve of his own.
Absentmindedly, he brushed his fingers through his thinning hair as he continued his steady walk around the meadow. The act was comforting, yet painful. It reminded him of all that he had once been but would never be again. He felt a deep ache, a memory of his youth when everything about him had worked seamlessly. But this memory was deceptive. He had been awkward as a teenager, the unease that defined his youth lingering well into adulthood. He had been an odd presence, overshadowed by a sense of discomfort he could never quite shake off, until he learned to live with it. Yet, there had been a time, as a child, when he had been carefree and naturally beautiful like a swan emerging from its awkward, ungainly phase. But in reality, it was a regression. Dark thoughts, and a constant sense of being misunderstood, shaped his view of the world. He’d accepted these burdens, carried them willingly, thinking they were part of the journey of life. The weight of past hurts had followed him, but he had always been too busy to confront them directly, too frightened to face what they might reveal about who he truly was. Instead, he crafted a façade, a mask to shield him from the possibility that his true self might be too flawed, too dark to be worthy of anything.
Despite the heaviness of these thoughts, a small smile tugged at his lips as he thought back to his teenage years. His awkwardness had been a barrier, keeping him from falling too hard, too fast, into traps that might have broken him. He had been beautiful then, though he had never recognized it at the time. He had seen himself as a collection of awkward angles, overthinking every step, every action. Years later, his old friends would tell him how they had seen him then, describing someone he scarcely recognized, though the details felt strangely familiar. They spoke of a person he, too, had once known.
There had always been a gap between the person he presented to the world and the person he knew himself to be. Something lost in translation, a disconnection between his intentions and his actions. He had wanted to be known for who he truly was, but every attempt to introduce himself only seemed to push others away. He had heard that people only see what they want to see, projecting their own expectations onto those they meet, and in turn, onto those they grow to love. They loved what they believed to be true, not what was actually there. It was a harsh realization he had been loved at times, but never for who he was. The love given to him was for the mask he wore, not for his true self. He despised the charade but felt powerless to change it. Fear had taken many forms over the years awkwardness, busyness, the sense that there was too much at stake to be vulnerable. Now, he was simply exhausted.
The meadow seemed to have grown larger lately. At first, it felt like a trick of the mind, but the truth couldn’t be avoided. He was shrinking, physically and emotionally. His light was dimming, and despite his past victories, they held no solace. His experience and wisdom offered no compensation. He mourned the person he had once been and in that grief, he clung to one desperate hope: that he would not be forgotten.
A surge of anger accompanied this longing, a fiery sorrow that raged against the unfairness of his situation. In that moment, the teenager he had been no longer seemed awkward. Now, he had a cause, a reason to exist, and in this cause, he could finally be himself.
That feeling of purpose had always been there, but it had been slipping away from him over the years. He had wanted to live on in the memories of others, convinced that, no matter how they had painted him, he had managed to leave his mark. That whatever image they had formed of him, he had donned it like a suit and walked through life on his own terms. There was always something rebellious about him, and deep down, he knew that would never change.
He stopped, raised his face to the sky, and let out a dry, frustrated laugh. He had wanted to shout, to scream, but the laugh more of a bitter chuckle escaped him first. It felt fitting. Still, he continued to gaze upward, beyond what was visible to the naked eye, focusing on something deeper.
He understood a little more now. He was part of everything he saw. The breakdown of who he had been, of what he had known, was necessary. Even though he was losing his memories, he knew this wasn’t the end. He was in transition. His forgotten memories would wait for him further down a road he couldn’t yet see, a road that was beyond his understanding for now.
He nodded to himself, and a single tear slid down his cheek. Another piece of his past slipping away, gone with the tear that fell into the grass beneath his slippered feet.
“All part of letting go,” he whispered softly, as realization washed over him. In understanding, he accepted what was happening. He felt lighter, as if the weight he had carried for so long was finally being released. The pain, the burden of years, flowed out of him, and he rose unencumbered, free of a load he had never been meant to carry.
The lesson had been learned.
Better late than never.
