The First Time And The Last

We drove up the snowy, winding road towards the cozy A-frame cabin.

With the passenger seat window slightly jarred, emerald green leaves and whistling water cocooned my senses as the Land Rover climbed over the pent-up snow. My sleepiness quickly dissipated, I sat up tall and pressed my face as close to the windscreen as possible – in keen anticipation for my first encounter with snow. This wet, burning, cold substance had become a soon-to-be-ticked-off bucket list item.

Never did I think I would be sharing this experience with a man whom I had only met three months prior while travelling through eastern Europe. One seemingly, meaningless decision altered my life – a life that no longer exists now since meeting him.

There’s something about the notion of experiencing something for the first time that makes you sit back in wonder, reminiscing on each step that led you to right now. Watching a flake of snow slowly make its way towards the ground, I’m transported back to that first night – the first drop of rain before the downpour. The first time I rode on the back of a scooter was that night. After sharing a few too many red velvet wines I anxiously got on the back of this stranger’s scooter. Red teeth and tipsy we sped through the pouring rain to my villa, it was three am.

"God, it’s gorgeous," he breathed. And I’m there again – it’s late December and I’m halfway across the world. With the car parked, the windscreen wipers slowly peeled away the icy frost, revealing a mountain cabin one can only describe as, what winter wonderland dreams are made of. A worthwhile reward for our four-hour journey through the dead of winter.

He grabs my hand and squeezes it softly, "go on, I’ll get our bags."

"You’re the best," I reply, squeezing his hand before ecstatically opening the car door and plunging my feet into an ankle-deep blanket of snow. The cold air ignited a sharp shock through my body, I gasped as the wet sensation sent shivers from my feet to my calves. My jaw was just about on the ground. I couldn’t resist channelling a little childish energy – it was snow after all. I dove my gloved hand into the soft, white substance and rolled my first snowball. Giddy with excitement I pelted it at him, the snow slid off and left a residue marking where it had landed, square in the centre of his back. Turning to face me, our eyes met, and we both start bellowing with laughter. He drops our bags – a clear engagement in an impending snowball fight. And in that moment, I thought – now this is everything.

It ends with me lying on my back in an act of surrender, the cold numbing my exposed head. Standing above me, he's laughing so hard it's almost silent and with an outstretched hand, he manages to get out,

"come on, let’s start the fire."

I finally understood when the poets said, they were like a breath of fresh air. That’s what he was to me. A breath of crisp, clean, fresh air – the kind you inhale after being by the ocean after feeling smothered in the city's smouldering congestion for weeks on end. He was like awakening a part of yourself you thought was long gone and buried. But here it was, bubbling at the surface, countering quick remarks with humour and flair. Settling into deep conversations like cosying in on your favourite couch. Except the couch is new and you’ve never even laid on it. Somehow, you still know – it’s going to be your favourite.

"Is this not the most perfect send-off to our time together," I finally say, touching the wooden décor in awe of our new weekend home. I glance up towards the towering high ceilings lined with windows, watching as the orange sun reflected off the melting snow. He takes a minute to respond, gently saying, "absolutely." He takes my hand in his and leads me to sit cross-legged in front of the burning fire.

There are only a handful of moments that have occurred in my life that have clearly pinpointed a turning page. The end of a chapter, the end of an old life. A split moment in time where I just knew that from that point on – I would lose something; an end was imminent. Specifically, the end of a relationship. The knowing that we would no longer be. Whatever was shared, would cease to exist in the present moment. A bond would become significantly severed. There had been times in the past when I hadn’t been too sure whether the end of a relationship had arrived – something in me remained suspicious that perhaps it wasn’t quite finished. I had been right then, but when I knew, I really knew. The finale, the end that couldn’t be unwritten.

Bonfire flames danced in his irises and looking at him now, I couldn’t be sure if this would be the finite moment I so dreaded would arrive. I’d already said goodbye to him twice, I decided then that I wouldn’t do it again.

"When you drop me off at the airport on Sunday, promise to just hug me and tell me to have a safe flight?" He searched my eyes looking for further elaboration and he found it – understanding what I had meant. Reading between each other’s subtext had always been an effortless feat.

"I promise. No more goodbyes." And for a moment I was just a woman sitting in front of a fire, with hot cocoa whistling as it steamed on the stove, resting her head on her best friend’s heart. With not a single future fear and no desire to reminisce on the past – as no moment was greater than the present one.