Smaug
written by: Katalin Abrudan
The other day it occurred to me that when I met you twenty years ago, you were the same age as I am now. That I’m the same age now as you were then.
Back then, we had nothing to do with each other except that I was caring for your son. I was a kind of second mum to him. And you were slightly suspicious whether I was going to do a good job or not. We both knew it wasn’t going to be easy.
Your son looked astonishingly like the hobbit. And he watched the world with the same sad, lost, and disappointed face like Bilbo did when the dwarfs sent him up the tallest tree in Mirkwood to see if the edge of the forest was in sight.
Just like Bilbo clung to the tree branches for dear life, so did your son cling to his photo albums. Hugging them to his chest, he carried them everywhere. And he was just as desperate as the hobbit was, when he saw that there was no way out. He, too, didn’t realise that he was at the bottom of a valley, and that if only he walked a little further would he come to the edge of the forest, where there was light and the world would make sense.
In his head, Beethoven’s symphonies were blaring in perfect harmony with the noise of banger racing. And he just HAD to slam every door that wasn’t properly shut so that the walls shook from the force. He used few words, but the words he uttered he had to repeat, to repeat, repeat.
The task set to me was challenging to say the least; partly because of all the quirks of your hobbit son and partly because of you. We both knew that as much as you wanted to let go of your son – he was an adult after all – you may never be able to. You always worried that others won’t look after him as well as you did and won’t love him nearly as much either.
There was some truth in that. You were the one who understood every word he said, even when no one else did. You understood him even when he didn’t speak.
So I had to overcome my handicap, and it took time, but I like to believe that eventually, I managed because your son was just as lovable as the hobbit. And you always knew who were those who loved him from their hearts.
I cannot of course pinpoint the moment when your trust in me opened up and unfurled like the silk scarf you gave me for my birthday. When did your appreciation start to wrap around me like the Indian wool blanket you gave me for Christmas? And when did your love start to watch over me like the angel-shaped silver earrings you gave me for another birthday? And eventually, you started to understand me even when we didn’t speak and didn’t see each other. You always knew what to do to make me feel special.
And me? What was my gift to you? Perhaps the fact that I loved your hobbit unconditionally.
Twenty years. How much togetherness and how much non-togetherness can one fit into twenty years?
When does friendship sublimate into that golden mist that floats around our souls?
Maybe at that moment when I stood at the grave, thinking that your son might still be alive if only he could talk just a little more or a little better. If only he had been able to say something to let us suspect that he had a pulmonary embolism.
Maybe years earlier when you said that if your son died first, you’d follow him quite soon.
But what we didn’t see at the time was that you would be attacked by the vicious amyotrophic lateral sclerosis, commonly known as Smaug. We didn’t suspect that you’d start stumbling, and later you wouldn’t be able to walk. We didn’t suspect that speech and even breathing would tire you out so, and that you would leave when I was so far away that we couldn’t say goodbye.
You were buried beside your son, two years after he was gone.
I’m left with your gifts, the angel in a glass pyramid, the candles burned, the memories of walks and Christmases together. And the recollections of days when I couldn’t visit you, when I didn’t have time to call, when I wasn’t there to make easier what was impossible to be made easier. You’re gone, and I’m left with the pure synthesis of friendship and the golden mist around Bilbo’s eyes.
