And on the first day you were a newborn babe; skin wrinkled and grey, screaming for your Mama, suckling at the bright pink nipple of her swollen breast.
Later you were a toddler, bright and gay, chuckling while you were being tickled by your Aunt as she bounced you up and down on her knee. How your eyes shone; how chubby were your arms, how small and white your teeth.
On the second day you were a boy of five, wearing bright red breeches. You ran across a field near your home, climbing trees, forging streams. The planet was a world of wonder, nature sparkled with magic and adventure.
On the third day you were a teen. Spots blemished your once-perfect skin. You had your first kiss, a fumbled affair in the lift room next to the Sixth form common room.
The fourth day you were in your late twenties. Time had passed quickly. You had met Carla in University and knew that one day you wanted to marry her. She made you happy like no other; you picked flowers for her when you went to meet her in the park which she wore in her hair. She was your Elfish queen. She was your everything.
Midday on the fifth you had married and were honeymooning in the Meditteranean. It was the most you could afford for a two week break, and was all the more special for it. You drove in a convertable with the roof down along a coastal road. The wind was blowing in your hair; the sunshine glinting off the water and reflecting off Carla's sunglasses. You were smiling and laughing. You were so in love.
On the sixth day you were sitting in your front room. It was raining outside and you were crying. You had slept with another woman. You begged Carla to stay. You had made a mistake: a bitter, stupid mistake. She said nothing, but turned and walked away.
You were in Egypt. You were older now. Your youthful looks were still there, but middle age was beginning to show. You were not overweight, but your body was starting to thicken. Carla had stayed, but you never felt as though you had righted the wrong you had done her. Your guilt would stay with you until the end of your days.
The eighth day, you were driving from the hospital. Carla was sitting in the seat next to you staring out of the window. Neither of you spoke.
On the ninth day, you had begun to look your age. Carla had passed away the previous year. You were approaching your sixtieth birthday. The skin on the back of your hands seemed thinner, almost all of your hair had turned grey or white.
Where was time going? You were eighty. You felt thin.
The eleventh day, you are lying there on the hospital bed. Your breathing is ragged. Your stare up at the ceiling, although it is not clear to others whether you are awake or not. You seem more solid to me now; more substantial. I know you can feel me. Sometimes you seem to look at me, but your vision is clouded, like that of a newborn babe.
The twelfth day. I am leaning over you, my face close to yours. Your breathing is shallow, your eyes are open, but they do not see. The living is draining out of you. And as you breath your last breath and your tortured body finally lies still, I kiss your forehead. You are solid now, as real as I am.
Then you open your eyes and look into mine for the first time. You smile. And I smile too.
