Devoted To You || Gilbert Blythe

XVI

~𝒜𝒹𝒶~
Goodbye. An interjection. Meaning farewell.
_________________________

It's the day before my life changes. That was dramatic but at a time like this, why not be?

Today is our final day of packing up our home in Avonlea. To say I am devastated about selling my home is an understatement.

I'm reminded of so many memories as I pack away the last of our belongings. Some will stay with me, at Aunt Josephine's, the rest will be traveling with my Father and brother.

"I've finished packing my room." Father sighs as he dusts his hands onto his green pants. "All that's left is books on the hallway shelves and the shed."

"I will deal with the books. I'm the only one that would handle them with care." I tease.

Father tugs at my ear, smiling, before walking outside. Alexander shuffles out of the hall closet with a box of items. "There was an inch of dust covering that whole room." He pauses for a moment before he sneezes.

"Cover your mouth." I scold.

"I do believe that you and Aunt Jo will get along just fine." He teases before sitting the box on the kitchen table. "I also believe that you will want to look through this to see if you want to keep any of it. It was on your shelf."

I nod. "Thank you, Alex."

He gives a small smile. "You know I'm going to miss you right."

"I know." I too give a soft grin. "But I'm sure once you reach France I will be long forgotten."

"We could never." He playfully rolls his eyes before walking out.

I look to the box, I decide to sift through the remnants of our life in Avonlea. Each item I handle carries with it a piece of our home – a home that holds cherished moments, laughter, and the echoes of my mother's love. The decision to part with this place feels like saying goodbye to a part of myself.

Amidst the belongings, I come across an old, weathered photo album. Dusting it off, I flip through the pages, reliving the moments captured within the worn edges. But it's the photograph tucked in the back that stops me in my tracks.

There, frozen in time, is a picture of my mother and me standing in front of the beloved willow tree. It's one of the last photos taken before she passed away. Her smile in the picture reflects the warmth and love that always surrounded her. My eyes well up as I trace the outline of her pale face, feeling a mixture of sorrow and gratitude for the time we had together.

Carefully, I slip the photo out of the album, holding it close to my heart. It's a tangible reminder of the woman who shaped me, of the strength she instilled in me, and the enduring bond we share. As I gaze at the image, the weight of the impending changes feels a bit lighter, knowing that, in some way, she'll be accompanying me on this new chapter of my life.

With the photograph clutched in my hand, I decide to keep it close, tucked safely into my coat pocket.

Closing the photo album, I take a deep breath, knowing that even as I bid farewell to this home, the memories and the love it held will forever be etched in my heart.

As I continue to sift through the remnants of our life in Avonlea, my fingers brush against a small, weathered box tucked away in the corner of the larger box. Curiosity piqued, I open it to find a collection of trinkets– a treasure trove of memories from my childhood.

Among the treasures, I find a faded drawing – a crude yet endearing sketch of a boy, girl, a cow, and a donkey. The memories rush back, transporting me to the day I first met Gilbert when we were both just seven years old.

In that simpler time, the sun-dappled cow fields were our playground, and the willow tree stood as our silent witness. The drawing, undoubtedly a representation of our youthful creativity, captures the essence of that fateful day.

I smile as I recall the innocence in Gilbert's eyes. It was a day that set the foundation for a friendship that would withstand the tests of time and distance.

Hopefully.

As I tuck the drawing safely into my keepsake box, I realize that even as life propels us into new adventures, there's solace in revisiting the treasures of the past. This small, nostalgic piece is a testament to the enduring bond forged under the shade of the willow tree.

***

"That's the last of it." Father grunts and they finish loading the remaining boxes and furniture onto our carriage.

"Finally." Alexander huffs, wiping the sweat off of his neck. I don't know how he can be sweating in this type of weather. It is freezing out here. As we stand in the cold, crisp air, I glance back at the house that has been our sanctuary, the place where laughter echoed through the halls and the warmth of family enveloped every corner. Father, who has maintained a stoic exterior throughout the packing process, catches my gaze.

His eyes, usually reserved and focused on the next task, soften as he takes in the sight of our home. The home he worked so hard to provide for us, a symbol of stability and love. His hand trembles slightly as he grips the edge of the carriage. I watch his shoulders shake, as a sob escapes.

"Father?" I murmur, sensing a shift in the air.

He turns to me, a pitiful smile playing on his lips. "Ada, my girl, it's just a house, isn't it?" His voice, gruff and weathered, betrays a hint of vulnerability.

A lump forms in my throat as I realize the weight of his words. It's not just a house; it's the repository of our shared history, the keeper of countless family tales. I step closer, placing a hand on his arm.

"It's more than just a house, Father. It's where we laughed, where we cried, where we fought all the time-" We all laugh at that last comment. "-it's where we all built a life together." I say, my voice echoing his unspoken sentiments.

He looks back at the house once more, his eyes glistening with emotion. "You're right, Ada. It's our home." He blinks away the moisture, clearing his throat. "Let's go. We have a new journey waiting for us. Ada, do you want to go tell Gilbert goodbye before you leave?" I nod hesitantly. "Okay. Meet us at the end of his road."

***

He's gone. Gilbert is gone.

I knocked on his door, front and back, for a few minutes and I didn't even hear a board in the house creek. I looked through the window and his furniture is covered in white sheets.

As much as it hurts me that he is leaving Avonlea, it hurts me more that he didn't even bother to say goodbye.

I fight back tears and turn to leave. I spot our willow tree, swaying in the field behind Gilbert's house. As if it is bidding me goodbye. I turn on my heels and make the painful walk to the carriage.

As the carriage begins to roll away from the familiar sight, I steal one last glance at the house – a silent farewell to the place that cradled our memories.

It's a bittersweet goodbye, a transition that feels like the closing of one chapter and the uncertain beginning of another.