The Tranquil Vintessa

“Let me tell you a story.“

She said it as she slowly sipped her mulled wine. We were out in her cabin. I hiked out to her regularly in the fall, but this time, it felt needed.
She was the last piece of a life that was no longer mine.

Her unkempt hair, whiskey eyes, and tear-stained cheeks told me her story. I knew it well — but it always felt so familiar.

She told me how she never felt love, how she chased affection only to end up in the arms of the wrong people. They hurt her in awful ways.
And when she cried, a swift slap would cure that — so she stopped crying, and started drinking.

She thought she was having a good time. And sometimes, she was.
But she was also running.
And being young.

When she got older, her mother tossed her out, tired of having her around.
So she had to figure out how to make do with nothing. Stretching twenty dollars for two weeks between gas, food, and anything else she might need — because the rest went to bills.

She was tired. And I saw that.
I saw the pain and resentment she carried for the world, and for those who had done her dirty.
But I also saw the longing — the deep craving for love and acceptance she wanted so desperately, buried behind it all.

When she was done, she looked out the window, onto an empty tree line — the moon high in the sky, fireflies dancing in the darkness.
Just like she had.

I sat, tea in hand, looking down.
We knew this would be the last time I’d be here.
The last time I would travel back.

I didn’t know if she could come with me — or if she was even willing.
But in order to get anywhere, I had to come back here and tell her:
I was done.

When I raised my head, I saw her staring at me — a quiet strength and determination in her eyes.

“You go now. I’ll find you if I need you. But you should go.”

Shocked, I asked, “Why?”

“You don’t belong here.
Not that you’re not welcome — a lot of people would love to see you stay.
But you’re better. Let them hate, let them be angry. You go and live your life and your dreams.

You’ve heard me talk about my problems for years. I’m tired of telling you my story.
How many times have you heard it? Ten, twelve… thirty times?”

She chuckled, a smile as bright as the moonlight.

“It’s time for you to go. I’ll be okay. I’ve survived worse situations.”

“Come with me… just for a visit?” I pleaded.

“Maybe.
But only when I want to. And when you’re ready.

But now, you go. Live, honey.
I have my plants, my drink… and the hope and love of you going and doing all the things I dreamed we’d do.

And I can’t wait to see everything you accomplish.”

She paused.

“You, my dear, are my dream.
You must do this for me.
I need this.”

We both looked away as tears filled our eyes.
I quickly wiped mine, taking some of her strength with me.

We locked eyes as I rose to leave.
I caressed her face and kissed her forehead.

“I’ll never forget you, Mama,” I said, my ring softly flickering in the firelight.

I grabbed my pup, still sleeping by the fireplace — in a state of calm so deep, he didn’t even stir as I slipped on his bag — and stepped out into the dark night.
Not looking back, but feeling her essence.
Knowing she was watching the moon.

Leaving her felt like a betrayal.
I felt like I owed her something — like I didn’t deserve to leave.

But if I didn’t try, what would I be missing?

Is it worth my joy, my happiness, to stay just because I felt expected to?
Just because others love to see me hike back to these woods — because it’s comfortable?

No.
It wouldn’t be fair to me.
And I have to start thinking like that — not the other way around.

So I kept walking.
I walked through the woods until dawn, the sun rising on a new day —
a new life for me.

And it was feeling good.

I fed myself porridge, my pup some food, then we continued to the car.

I hopped in and drove into the horizon.

It’s time.