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We spent all of our days together for the rest of the summer. We isolated ourselves from everybody else, even family, as much as possible for the first few weeks while we relearned old ways. We constantly corrected each other's speech and mannerisms in an effort to re-identify with our prior lives. By the time that school started, we felt that we had integrated ourselves back into late 20th century culture. People made comments about our sudden maturity, but nobody had openly accused us of acting effeminate, and we slowly became more comfortable in our environs.
One Saturday morning, a couple of weeks after school had begun, I walked alone down to the city library. Using the microfilm reader, I read though the old newspaper accounts of the Westervelt family. It was like a wonderful walk down memory lane as I read about my former life. I wept uncontrollably when I read the accounts of my son Peter's death in the skies over France, and I again relived the agony of that day when I had received the telegram informing me. Peter had been my youngest, my baby, and I had been so very proud of him. I received quite a few strange stares from other people in the library but, as no one came over to comfort me, I ignored them. I also cried as I read Jeremy's obituary. He was my one true love and I shall never love another as I did him. Finding some humorous accounts of my family's chronicles, I was able to cheer myself up and I even giggled a little. I took the time to trace the history of all of my children, to the extent possible from the microfilm records. It made me sad to think that they had all passed away long ago. My first child, Jeremy, Jr. had been born 112 years ago. I knew that some of my grandchildren must still be alive, and many of my other descendents that had attended my last birthday party would certainly be alive and well. But I also knew that I could never contact them and inform them that I was their great, or great-great grandmother. Can you imagine how ridiculous that would sound? Yet I still ached to be with my family again.
Lastly, I read the accounts of my own death. How many people get to read their final obituary? I had received wonderful write-ups in the local papers. They praised my contributions to the community and local charities as they traced my life from my marriage into the Westervelt family, until my death. The list of surviving family was long. The town had virtually closed down on the day of my burial, and the date was honored for many years thereafter. Growing up, I had never known, nor could I even have suspected, that Westervelt Park, in the center of town, had been named after me.
After I had finished my reading, and dried my tears, I took a very long walk, winding up down near the waterfront. Jeremy and I had spent many wonderful hours down here. I remembered back to when we had first walked along the shore, holding hands and talking about our future together, and later, when we had walked along, holding hands and talking about the many years that we had shared together.
I sat down with my back against a tree to look out at the water and contemplate my future. What would I do with myself now? I had lived a full lifetime, and I had traveled the world. And, I had done it all as a woman. But now, after having lived a hundred and four years, I was back in the body of an eighteen year old boy.
The biggest problem with living longer than almost everyone around you is the incredible loneliness that comes from the loss of loved ones. I decided that, given my lifetime of experiences, I would like to become a writer. And for my first story, I would like to tell of my other life. But would anybody believe me? Could anybody believe me? I concluded that I must write it as a work of fiction. At least I would be able to tell my story without being ridiculed.
I opened my notebook and began to write, 'Chapter 1. "Come on Rob, stretch," I half yelled and half grunted as his weight on my shoulders threatened to drive me to my knees. "I... am... stretching..." Rob said with a note of both exasperation and determination in his voice. "I can't... reach... it."
Grace
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