Well, when the rough draft of this last chapter, entitled “The End” after the same chapter in New Moon, reached fifteen pages, I knew I had to break it into two separate chapters.
But, so that I won't keep you all in suspense, I'll post them together, Part I and Part II of “The End” back-to-back. So you'll find Part II posted within minutes of Part I. I hope that works for you. :)
So I'll save all the “last chapter” stuff for Part II. :) Just enjoy, and please do remember to review Part I before going onto Part II.
Again I am indebted to AllTheOtherNamesAreUsed's story Midnight Sun Bridge on FanFiction.net for the information regarding e.e. cummings as Bella's favorite poet. Her story inspired the use of cummings poem below.
Chapter Fifty-Five: The End, Part I
Once again I pulled Bella's body against mine, burying my face in her strawberry-scented locks as the final song on the CD I had recorded for for birthday gift began. I knew that this song, almost as much as her lullaby, expressed my love for this beautiful, headstrong, loyal, incredible human girl...my beloved, whom I would be leaving behind, broken-hearted, in a matter of days.
When I had learned that Bella's favorite poet was e.e. cummings, I was inspired to set one of his poems to music. The piano hadn't sounded right for such a personal tribute, so I had picked up my guitar. The melody came to me easily; the chord progression was simple, providing background to the powerful words penned by a poet whose work I had dismissed as vulgar and childish. Until Bella had changed my mind.
As she had changed me in so many, many ways.
As the first guitar chords flowed from Bella's inexpensive player, I desperately wished that I could have performed this song for her in person, perhaps in my bedroom. I envisioned the scene: myself sitting on my leather sofa with Bella nestled at my feet as my fingers gently plucked the strings, my voice, raspy with emotion, crooning the familiar words to her...to my beloved:
somewhere I have never travelled,
gladly beyond any experience,
your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture
are things that enclose me,
or which I cannot touch
because they are too near.
your slightest look
will easily enclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal
myself as Spring opens
her first rose...
or if your wish to be close me,
i and my life will shut very beautifully,
suddenly, as when the heart of this flower
imagines the snow carefully
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