Ode To Oscar: Chapter One, Simplicity.

         I lived a comfortable life as a child, comfortable enough considering the inheritance my family received from my late Grandfather. I lived with my mother and father in London for quite a while, along with my brother. It was quite quaint as I remember it, if not dull. By my time, girls had been allowed to attend school in person, though I was put into an all girl’s school, where I spent about four hours each weekday. I was frequently praised for being smart during my girlhood, though whether this is credible to my intelligence is debatable. A smart girl, or furthermore, a smart woman, was considered dangerous around my time. There was never a shortage of clever girls, however, but those girls never seemed to threaten the comfort of whatever men they shallowly impressed. Somehow my cleverness never seemed to breach past the line that had been unspoken, set by the standards of men.

         I was introduced to Oscar when I was thirty one. It was nearing my thirty second birthday, and my mother had been parading me around, trying desperately to find me a husband before she’d find herself buried beside my father. Growing up, I’d always seen marriage as a choice. I never saw being wed as a necessity at all, but my mother still seemed defiant about my lackluster interest in getting married. She had introduced me to a couple of men my age over the years, but none of them seemed to stick with me. When she came to me, a bright excitement sparking in her eyes, I gave in. I remember being quite tired that day, and admittedly very irritated. My exhaustion only furthered my usual soft spoken nature, and I frankly said very little upon meeting Oscar for the first time. I had always been remarkably quiet, as Sphinx would pester my dear Oscar about a considerable amount. I was much more a listener than I was a speaker. I’d ask the occasional question, my curiosity the only thing fueling my participation in whatever conversation I was having at any given moment. Oscar seemed to appreciate this, as he’d always been a talker. He told me invigorating stories of his visits to America, the very elegant form of his speech being remarkably entertaining. Of course, Oscar was nothing if not an entertainer. He knew this very well, of course, his storytelling the very foundation of his success. He had a way of keeping you engaged, always on the edge of your seat, anticipating the next words to come from his mouth.

         But even despite my usual silence, I wasn’t about to let my opinions go without being said. He and I had quite the lengthy discussion, jumping from one topic to the next. I believe Oscar was as intrigued with me as I was with him. We bounced off one another, our conversation on the verge of an argument, but never quite passing over into that territory.

         Even when he wasn’t the one telling the story, you would always know when Oscar had written something. His stories all had a familiar air to them. He was remarkably identifiable in the best of ways, his writing standing out amongst the other playwrights of his time.

         It wasn’t long after we’d met that Oscar popped the titular question. He had been very elaborate with his plans to propose, and the moment he asked is a memory I’ll never possibly forget.

         I wouldn’t be at all surprised if Oscar kept the letters I sent for the duration of our engagement. Anyone you’d ask would respond the same way, knowing full well that I was nothing short of smitten with him. My letters were full of the sappy nonsense that I knew Oscar craved, each word having been written with the vitality sent from the very pounding of my heartbeat.

         And Oscar’s letters never failed to amaze me. He sent me the most thoughtful, heartstrung writings I’d ever had the pleasure of reading in my entire existence. His letters were a melodic song, composed by a man I’ll never truly understand the intricacies of. He’s a frighteningly amazing person, and I am astonished at everything he does. He’s a conductor, leading a divine symphony. A symphony he was undeniably responsible for writing, I have no doubt. He’s magnificent, and I know for certain that he makes up the majority of my thoughts. I can’t think of a better person to dream about.

         I married Oscar when I was thirty two, in May. It had been a beautiful day out, to my delight, after worrying immensely the week advancing our wedding date. It had been rainy for several days prior, and I had stressed over our wedding being ruined by the weather’s uncouth plans.

         Oscar always loved to be extravagant with things. Our wedding was nothing short of spectacular, Oscar having brought everything he could to make the wedding perfect. It’s something I’ve always appreciated, how beautiful our wedding day was. He truly put so much effort into making that day memorable.

         There was never a boring day with Oscar. Our wedded life was always full of excitement, as Oscar always made a way to liven his surroundings up. In the following years when our sons were born, Oscar proved himself to be an astonishingly good father as well, his relationships with Cyril and Vyvyan positive ones indeed.

         I often remember peeking into Oscar’s office while he was busy at work. He’d surround himself in books, several of them opened on a specific page. I’d sit and watch him read, watch him flip the pages at a speed I found almost impossible. I often remarked that it must have been impossible for him to understand what he was reading at that pace, but he always assured me that he could recite any page at a moment’s notice. I always knew to believe him.
It’s quite a hefty challenge to understand what goes on in that mind. It often feels like he was in a world of his own, a place filled with wonder and joy. The creativity he so casually seemed to hold was the very core of his being.

         The unfortunate times when Oscar was away felt akin to the shadow left by a striking, beautiful flower. When he was home, when he was with me- everything about the world seemed to be in its rightful place. He was the final piece in an intricate puzzle, fitting snug along with everything else. But the moment he left, everything seemed to splinter. It felt as if the edges of my livelihood were fraying at the seams, falling apart before my eyes. Something was always certainly missing from my day to day, and the moment Oscar went through the door, my heart dropped into my stomach, every single time.

         His presence was like the shining sun on my face, this bright warmth that I so craved everytime he went away. I longed to be near him, wherever he may have been, but was confined to the simplicity I had been forced to get used to.

         For a lack of a better word, life without Oscar was dreadfully boring. That isn’t to say that it was all bleak, and I certainly enjoyed spending time with my sons. But the uneasy, unhappy feeling never ceased to creep up my spine, knowing that nothing was truly right if Oscar wasn’t there to do even the simplest of things together.

         To pass the time, I began a challenge for myself. I aimed to read every book within Oscar’s substantial library, and have the knowledge to discuss each book in length if need be. I found myself almost constantly within the walls of that library, and by the time Oscar had returned from his final production of The Importance Of Being Earnest, I had all but thirty books left to finish.

         He was thrilled to see I had taken up such an interest in his vast collection, parading around the library, testing my memory as he pulled out one book after the other. Only three of the books he took out had been ones I hadn’t completed yet, and he was astonished at my recollection of each of the contents of the novels.

         I sometimes wonder if I at all influenced Oscar’s works. I know for certain that he wrote a number of poems about me, and I know without a doubt that I still know those very poems by heart. But curiosity never seems to fail me, and I’ve begun pondering about the extent of my expression within Oscar’s acclaimed pieces.