The Notebook (The Notebook 1)

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, with red streaks cutting the summer sky, and the last remnants of the day were fading. The sky was slowly changing color, and as I was watching the sun go down, I remember thinking about that brief, flickering moment when day suddenly turns into night.

Dusk, I realized then, 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?

Looking back, I find it ironic that she chose to read the letter at the exact moment that question popped into my head. It is ironic, of course, because 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. They are here at the creek: the birds, the geese, my friends. Their bodies float on the cool water, which reflects bits and pieces of their colors and make 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?"

What is death? I wonder, but I do not say this. Instead I answer, "My wife is alive in my heart. And she always will be."

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

"Of course. But I love many things. I love to sit here with you. I love to share the beauty of this place with someone I care about. I love to watch the osprey swoop t

oward the creek and find its dinner."

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?"

"Is what 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 silently 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 just as it did this morning. Deep breaths, relaxed breaths, and there is a moment when she dozes off, like those comfortable with one another often do. I wonder if the young are capable of enjoying this. Finally, when she wakes, a miracle.