Memories

[anemophilic]

 

 

“It's such an ordinary story, if it can be called that. The same things have happened and are happening to countless other young men before me, but most probably more interestingly.” Oliver nodded his head and gently smiled. “It wouldn't be of much interest to anybody. But I'll tell you almost all of it if you're interested.”

 

 Christabel eagerly said yes and quickly dipped her pen in ink in order to catch his first words. At her behest Oliver told the nostalgic yet not quite old stories of his time as an undergraduate at Oxford. Firstly, about the people who influenced his thoughts and actions the most, and the typical experiences of a divinity student, and then he got into his relationships and the narrative that he spun became much less linear and more like a web of events and individuals and scenes. At this point many seemingly minor incidents came up, made significant by the people they involved.

 

 Though the things of which Oliver spoke only happened a few years ago, they belonged to a different stage in his life. When he came to a particularly moving or sensitive recollection Oliver would look off as if into space and measure his words carefully since he knew they were being written down, and even if they were likely to never see publication, he wanted to speak very carefully if his words were being set in ink. Still, Oliver seemed restrained, as if he were actively trying to sift out certain details. 

 

  In the course of writing Oliver's words exactly as he spoke, line for line, Christabel came to realize that she didn't know Oliver as well as she thought, or rather in the way that she thought she did. The young priest's memories were all like gems to her, no matter how mundane they sounded because of the feelings she had once had for him. As he talked on and got into recalling his relationships with his fellow students, Christabel couldn't help but feel a twinge of jealousy on behalf of her younger self towards the young men he spoke so lovingly of (some especially so), although she chided herself for feeling that way after all this time. Still, she couldn't deny that in a way she still had that irrational yet innocent infatuation with Oliver that she had had four summers ago. “It still won't happen…” she thought as she bent over a new sheet of manuscript paper. Christabel was nineteen and Oliver was twenty-nine, the difference between them in age was rather great, and ages notwithstanding, Oliver had plainly told her that he had no intention of ever marrying. 

 

 This last fact was what Oliver began to speak of as the sun began to set and cast a golden light on the drawing room. Of all of Oliver's peculiarities this was the one which Christabel could never understand. He seemed so full of affection that it seemed totally inconceivable for him of all people to make a principle of not marrying. His aunt herself had even told her what a queer thing it was, since he seemed like he would make such a great husband and father. If asked Oliver would say something to the effect that it was for religious purposes, a statement which made sense when he applied it to his wearing a cassock instead of a regular black suit with a clerical collar (even though people said it made him look like a papist), or even his not eating meat on Fridays because it was quote, “after the ancient Christian custom”, but it seemed absurd for a totally normal young man to forego the joys of marriage and family life under no compulsion. 

 

“Absurd, isn't it?” Oliver said, almost as if he read her thoughts at that moment.

 

“Well, no offense but yes, it seems very much so.” Christabel answered, hoping that he wouldn't see that she was blushing.

 

“Yes because it is. Nevertheless I feel that it's the only way a person like myself can live at peace with God and society.”

 

“I don't quite understand.” Christabel looked at Oliver inquisitively.

 

“I can't expect you to. The less you understand this, the better.” Oliver looked wistfully out of the window at the purple twilight clouds.