XXIV
By now you know I envy the full-bodied existence of human beings. Oh, I don’t deny the hardship of their lives. Hardships are plentiful, and even I, in my own way, sometimes feel a great sadness as I watch the characters of my small world. I know I don’t have to explain that to you, my reader. You are part of that world. You have been quite patient and understanding, even kind. But in spite of the hardships, it is such a wonderful thing to be alive. I’m thinking especially of the little things that occur so unexpectedly—like Christine’s meeting with the black fisherman, Jason. Had Mr. Rieneau been at the pier that night, Christine would most likely have passed the late night hours in conversation with the old mariner who has become a kind of grandfather mentor to her, to a young woman whose two familiar fathers have become strangers to her. Or had she not been so filled with emotion at having met this other woman who is about to enter into her life, Christine might not have gone to the pier at all. But Mr. Rieneau was not there, and this other person entered into her life, where I expect he will remain for lifetime. So it seems that it was destined by chance that she and Jason would share that night an hour or two of their lives. There, above the ocean, beneath the stars twinkling dimly in the dark infinity that enshrouded them in mystery—these two lives mingled together in an eddy existing only briefly within the greater flow of Time.
It
seems inconceivable really. I don’t mean only the fortuitousness of the
meeting, though as one who exists in a story predetermined by its author, I am
fascinated by the unpredictable quality of your world, but what I had in mind
was the beauty of the encounter, which touched the fleshless core of my being.
In the midst of dying and death, Christine’s life is still surrounded by so
much that is wondrous and beautiful—the night, the stars, the ocean, the
sleeping city, a nurse apparently miraculous in her devotion, and an old black
fisherman to whom life has not always been kind, yet who remains himself full
of kindness. And all these things are given, as if by grace, as rewards just
for being alive, rewards well deserved, nonetheless, for enduring the hardships
of human existence. Given or not, they are an invaluable part of the sublimity
of the human drama. Christine seems to understand all this, that the greatest
treasures in life are given, not bought.
