There wasn’t much he could see ahead of himself. It was
cold and it was unclear and that was his future; he had never been more certain
of anything in his life.
Before he’d set off, things had been good, probably better
than good. They’d spent time, all of them, together on the west coast. A small Scottish
town called Greenock.
They’d got drunk, had punch ups with the locals, but
most of all they had bonded. Perhaps that was why he was doing what he was
doing, perhaps only God knew the answer to that question.
The beautiful River Clyde, had been spectacular on that
last day. The sun had been setting behind Helensburgh and he could see the
Arrochar Alps as the ship turned to head towards the Irish Sea.
What a life it had been; a life of laughter and a few
tears but always full of adventure. Always on the edge, always completely
alive. He felt the toes on his left leg grow cold.
It was hard to breathe but then nothing that was
worthwhile was ever won easy. Life was hard but friends, companionship, and
family took that particular sting away. That made it all worthwhile; love and
adventure was everything.
I suppose, he thought, that he could have done things
differently and not ended up here, not ended up in this predicament - but then,
the ending should never over shadow the living of a life.
He’d never settled for what had been given to him. He
could have lived comfortably and gone to his grave, relatively unmarked and
unremarkable.
Yet, that was not what his heart was satisfied with. He’d had to climb the highest, run the fastest, jump the longest. That was the way he had been set to live in this universe and there had been no going back.
Yet, that was not what his heart was satisfied with. He’d had to climb the highest, run the fastest, jump the longest. That was the way he had been set to live in this universe and there had been no going back.
There was a price for everything - if his life had
taught him anything, it had taught him that. He’d paid for his life of movement
and achievement by never finding a place to belong. It did bother him, everyone
should belong somewhere.
He looked up at the little number of the stars he could see and wondered if one day a man would stand on the moon and look back at Earth and feel homesick. That was the best he could do – say that this planet was his home.
He was dying from the inside out and yet he felt more
peaceful than he had ever done before. There would be something, he was sure of
it, on the other side.
He started to smile, he had no idea why, but suddenly
his life seemed simpler than it had ever been. What he was doing seemed natural,
the right thing, perhaps it had all been leading up to this point.
He thought of the lies he had told all of them as he
left. He hadn’t believed it and neither should they. But there were things that
were better left unsaid, unspoken. Those things were shouted the loudest in the
silence.
He loved them all, that was the only reason he was
walking in this direction.
He had written letters to those who mattered and one day
they would find them. He wondered if he’d ever be found, ever be seen again,
ever be held by a warm hand.
The coughing made him lose his breath and he bent down.
Soon the pain would all go. Soon it would only be sleep. Soon it would all be
over.
The wind was picking up and he pulled the woolen hat
down over his ears. There was a whistling in the wind and he was sure he could
hear choirs. Maybe there were angels after all, or maybe it was the cold and
hunger.
Not long now, he could feel his time coming. He had to
do this. There was no room in the tent for all of them to survive.
So he’d crawled out, turned to the rest and said:
“I’m going outside and I may be some time.”
And this is where he was going to rest, and at least he’d
got to stand on the South Pole.
He thought of his sister and he whispered, ‘goodbye’ and
of his time in Putney.
He said ‘thank you’ on his frost bitten lips and then
his heart stopped.
bobby stevenson 2014
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