Nicholas Sparks - The Notebook

I know you cared for him. And his reaction proves to me he cared for you as well. Even as you explained that you had always loved me, and that it wouldn't be fair to him, he did not release your hand. I know he was hurt and angry, and tried for almost an hour to change your mind, but when you stood firm and said, "I can't go back with you, I'm so sorry," he knew that your decision had been made. You said he simply nodded and the two of you sat together for a long time without speaking. I have always wondered what he was thinking as he sat with you, but I'm sure it was the same way I felt only a few hours before. And when he finally walked you to your car, you said he told you that I was a lucky man. He behaved as a gentleman would, and I understood then why your choice was so hard.

I remember that when I finished the story, the room was quiet until Kate finally stood to embrace me. "Oh, Daddy," she said with tears in her eyes, and though I expected to answer their questions, they did not ask any. Instead, they gave me something much more special. For the next four hours, each of them told me how much the two of us had meant to them growing up. One by one, they told stories about things I had long since forgotten. And by the end I was crying, because I realized how well we had done with raising them. I was so proud of them, and proud of you, and happy about the life we have led. And nothing will ever take that away. Nothing. I only wish you could have been here to enjoy it with me.

After they left, I rocked in silence, thinking back on our life together. You are always here with me when I do so, at least in my heart, and it is impossible for me to remember a time when you were not a part of me. I do not know who I would have become had you never come back to me that day.

I love you, Allie. I am who I am because of you. You are every reason, every hope and every dream I've ever had, and no matter what happens to us in the future, every day we are together is the greatest day of my life. I will always be yours.

And, my darling, you will always be mine.

Noah

I put the pages aside and remember sitting with Allie on our porch when she read this letter for the first time. It was late afternoon and the last remnants of the day were fading. The sky was slowly changing colour, and as I watched the sun go down I remember thinking about that brief, flickering moment when day suddenly turns into night. Dusk, I realized, is just an illusion, because the sun is either above the horizon or below it. And that means that day and night are linked in a way that few things are; there cannot be one without the other, yet they cannot exist at the same time. How would it feel, I remember wondering, to be always together, yet forever apart? I know the answer now. I know what it's like to be day and night now; always together, forever apart.

THERE IS BEAUTY where we sit this afternoon, Allie and I. This is the pinnacle of my life. The birds, the geese, float on the cool water, which reflects bits and pieces of their colours and makes them seem larger than they really are. Allie too is taken in by their wonder, and little by little we get to know each other again.

"It's good to talk to you. I find that I miss it, even when it hasn't been that long." I am sincere and she knows this, but she is still wary. I am a stranger.

"Is this something we do often?" she asks. "Do we sit here and watch the birds a lot? I mean, do we know each other well?"

"Yes and no. I think everyone has secrets, but we have been acquainted for years."

She looks to her hands, then mine. She thinks about this for a moment, her face at such an angle that she looks young again. We do not wear our rings. Again, there is a reason for this. She asks: "Were you ever married?"

I nod. "Yes."

"What was she like?"

I tell the truth. "She was my dream. She made me who I am, and holding her in my arms was more natural to me than my own heartbeat. I think about her all the time. Even now, when I'm sitting here, I think about her. There could never have been another."

She takes this in. I don't know how she feels about this. Finally she speaks softly, her voice angelic, sensual. I wonder if she knows I think these things. "Is she dead?"

"My wife is alive in my heart. And she always will be," I answer.

"You still love her, don't you?"

"Of course. But I love many things. I love to sit here with you. I love to watch the osprey swoop towards the creek and find its dinner. I love to share the beauty of this place with someone I care about."

She is quiet for a moment. She looks away so I can't see her face. It has been her habit for years. "Why are you doing this?" No fear, just curiosity. This is good. I know what she means, but I ask anyway.

"What?"

"Why are you spending the day with me?"

I smile. "I'm here because this is where I'm supposed to be. It's not complicated. Both you and I are enjoying ourselves. Don't dismiss my time with you-it's not wasted. It's what I want. I sit here and we talk and I think to myself, “What could be better than what I am doing now?"

She looks me in the eyes, and for a moment, just a moment, her eyes twinkle. A slight smile forms on her lips. "I like being with you, but if getting me intrigued is what you're after you've succeeded. I admit I enjoy your company, but I know nothing about you. I don't expect you to tell me your life story, but why are you so mysterious?"

"I read once that women love mysterious strangers."

"See, you haven't really answered the question. You haven't answered most of my questions. You didn't even tell me how the story ended this morning."

I shrug. We sit quietly for a while. Finally I ask: "Is it true that women love mysterious strangers?"

She thinks about this and laughs. Then she answers as I would: "I think some women do."

"Do you?"

"Now don't go putting me on the spot. I don't know you well enough for that." She is teasing me and I enjoy it.

We sit and watch the world around us. This has taken us a lifetime to learn. It seems only the old are able to sit next to one another and not say anything and still feel content. The young, brash and impatient, must always break the silence. It is a waste, for silence is pure. Silence is holy. It draws people together because only those who are comfortable with each other can sit without speaking. This is the great paradox.

Time passes, and gradually our breathing begins to coincide. Deep breaths, relaxed breaths, and there is a moment when she dozes off, like those comfortable with one another often do. When she wakes, a miracle: "Do you see that bird?" She points to it, and I strain my eyes. It is a wonder I can see it, but I can because the sun is bright.

"Caspian stern," I say softly, and we devote our attention to it as it glides over Brices Creek. And, like an old habit rediscovered, when I lower my arm, I put my hand on her knee and she doesn't make me move it.

SHE IS RIGHT about my evasiveness. On days like these, when only her memory is gone, I am vague in my answers because I've hurt my wife unintentionally with careless slips of my tongue many times these past few years, and I am determined not to let it happen again. So I limit myself and answer only what is asked, to limit the pain. There are days she never learns of her children or that we are married. I am sorry for this, but I will not change.

Does this make me dishonest? Perhaps, but I have seen her crushed by the waterfall of information that is her life. Could I look myself in the mirror without red eyes and quivering jaw and know I have forgotten all that was important to me? I could not and neither can she, for when this odyssey began, that is how I began. Her life, her marriage, her children. Her friends and her work.