The Counting-Downers (21 page)

“Thanks, so was yours.” Without either of us realizing, our hands became entwined at some point in the conversation, as if they sought out each other for comfort. He seems to notice our joined hands at the same time I do, but neither of us moves. We’re both quiet in contemplation. Hope and melancholy mingle in the air, creating a bittersweet atmosphere that reflects our moods.

Out of nowhere, I have an idea that has excitement running through me and causes me to grab his arm. “Let’s make them real lists.”

“What do you mean?”

“We should create legacy lists. We’ve just talked about what we want our legacies to be, but we need to take the steps to make them a reality while we’re alive. Our legacies aren’t just going to happen by themselves.”

“So you mean like a bucket list?”

“No, not like a bucket list at all. I mean, I’m making the idea up as I go along, but I see a bucket list as more of things you want to do before you die. Bucket lists are great, and you know I love lists, but most of the time, they’re inherently selfish.
Legacy
lists aren’t about you. They’re about the people and the world you’ll be leaving behind.”

“So what exactly would a ‘legacy list’ look like?”

Inspired, I jump off the bed and rush over to the wooden desk in the far corner. Opening one of the draws, I pull out a sheet of paper, two red and blue pencils, and a notepad to rest everything on. I make my way back to a bemused Tristan.

“Laugh all you want, but you’re witnessing genius in the making right here.”

“Carry on.”

“Okay, so,” I say, writing ‘Matilda and Tristan’s Legacy List’ at the top in my best writing, elbowing Tristan when he snorts at my actions. “You can be red, I’ll be blue.”

“Any reason why?”

“Because I said so.”

“Good enough.”

“As I was saying.” I refocus the conversation, picking up the blue pencil. “I’d said that I wanted to teach Oscar things, so I write,
‘Teach Oscar five life skills.
” I explain, doing just that.

“Now it’s your turn. You wanted to make art that people wanted to own and treasure so write a rough number of how many pieces of art you’d like to sell over a lifetime.” I hand him the red pen, watching as he writes
‘Sell at least two hundred paintings that are so good, people want to keep them forever.’
He hands the sheet back to me.

“Your go.”

“I wouldn’t mind living forever in a few more of your paintings.” I smile at my joke, writing down
‘Live forever in ten of Tristan’s paintings.’

“You’re already in more than ten.” He points out, referring to the fifteen in his exhibition.

“Today is the starting date. Anything before this doesn’t make it onto the list.”

“I forgot how serious you are about lists.”

“They’re the rules.”

“I didn’t realize you had any respect for rules.”

He has me there. “You’re right. I don’t.” I laugh.

“You know, if you thought my paintings were bad, you’re probably on hundreds of people’s walls and albums in the background of their photos.”

My eyes widen as I think about the amount of times I’ve walked behind someone taking a photograph, and the amount of people who always ended up in my holiday shots. “Oh, my God, that is so creepy.”

His laughter booms and bounces off the wood. “I can’t believe you as a photographer have never thought of it. I
always
wonder how many photo frames I’m stuck in around the world. Just a casual passerby to people’s memories. Captured and immortalized even though I’m nameless. Talk about a legacy.”

For some reason, I find this idea both fascinating and hilarious. “You know what we should do?” I warm to the idea as it forms in my mind.

“What?”

“We should try and be in as many photos as possible from today on.”

“You mean like photobombing people?” He chuckles.

“I mean exactly like photobombing. Some we can make look like accident and just stroll through the back of the frame, others we can pull silly faces or gestures so that when people have them printed, they’ll notice.”

“I know you’re still old school and prefer to shoot with prehistoric film, but you know digital cameras will hinder our fun, right? People will look back, see our stupid faces, and delete the photo before it ever makes it to print.”

“Some, not all. I’m willing to take my chances. So are you in or out?”

He pretends to think about this for all of one second. “I’m in.”

“Good. We’ll need a different color for an action on the list that applies to both of us.” I head over to the desk and pull out a green pencil. He watches, unable to control his laughter as I write,
‘Walk in the background of at least one hundred photos’
in green pencil.

And so it goes. I make sure to ‘pause’ our time and capture this moment I don’t want to ever end.

Tristan and I spend the afternoon thinking about the world we will one day leave behind. We sit side-by-side, scribing ways to make our mark, as the sun shifts in the sky and begins its daily descent.

And over shared laughter, announced dreams, and unspoken fears, we make a list. One we hope will change the lives we’ll touch for the better, and maybe make us better people along the way.

“DID YOU SEE his face?”

“I know, he’s so happy.”

It’s been just over a week since we created the legacy list and Tristan and I have just carried out another random act of kindness.

The saying that there’s no such thing as an unselfish deed is true because every time we do something to brighten someone’s day, it always ends up brightening my own.

From the size of his smile and the depth of his dimples, I know Tristan is benefitting from our actions too.

So far, our random acts of kindness have ranged from the small, like anonymously buying a coffee for someone and complimenting a stranger on their dress, to what we’ve just done, which is putting money in a nearly expired parking meter.

The car owner has just come out to top it up and realized that the balance is much higher than it should be. Seeing his expression go from bewildered, to delighted, to relieved makes it worth every cent.

Before we carried out our first kindness, Tristan had this amazing idea to leave behind a packet of forget-me-not seeds at every event to signify that it was part of our legacy.

Watching from our hiding spot behind a nearby bush as our latest recipient bends down to pick up the seed packet on the ground beneath the meter and smile as he straightens, makes me jump up and down with childish glee. Tristan stiffens behind me as my movements cause me to brush up against him several times. I smile to myself at his reaction.

As the man looks around the parking lot again, trying to find whom to thank, we retreat further into the bushes, away from view. Tristan’s minty breath tickles my ear as he leans over my shoulder, causing tingles along my spine.

“Um, if you’re out there, thank you!” the random man shouts to the invisible silence, before pocketing the seeds and retreating inside.

Once I’m sure he’s gone, I spin around and jump into Tristan’s unsuspecting arms, causing him to stumble backward before he tightens his arms around me and lowers his head into my loose hair.

“We did it!”

He lowers me to the ground and looks into my eyes with a seriousness that doesn’t match the moment.

“Yes, we did.”

Hypnotized, I stare back, unblinking and unable to move as he leans forward, inch by inch.

Time seems to freeze without me even pressing the button on my stopwatch.

A loud bang as a car splutters into the lot has us jumping apart like children caught stealing from the cookie jar. The moment shatters, time restarts, and Tristan can no longer meet my eyes.

I clear my throat to try to break the tension with noise. “We should probably…” I say, swinging my arm in the direction of my car.

“Yes. Sounds good.”

We climb from the shrubbery and walk across the lot in silence with our heads down and cheeks reddened.

“So…” I say once we’re both seated and belted. “Where to?”

“Um… the beach?”

“Perfect. Good thinking, Goldilocks. We haven’t been there in a while.” Sarcasm drips through my voice, knowing we were there just yesterday but trying to regain our equilibrium after the awkwardness.

I don’t think it works but he does recognize my attempt for what it is and tries to help me along. “I know. I’ve almost forgotten what our spot looks like.”

Our spot.

I love that he calls it ‘our spot.’

I love that we have something that’s ours.

I love that we’re an ‘us.’

Not officially, but in all the ways that count.

Linking my iPod up to the car stereo, I press play as I pull out of the lot.

To say my taste in music is eclectic, would be a huge understatement. Someone once told me that they couldn’t stand people who answered ‘a little bit of everything’ when asked about their tastes in music. Well, I can’t stand people who become annoyed when people refuse to fit into neat boxes.

Why should I limit myself to one kind of music to please someone else? So often Tchaikovsky will spill into the Rolling Stones before shuffling into The Avett Brothers. And I love it.

In my opinion, those who love music, love life. Like all artists, musicians are magicians. Magic and metaphors exist in music superior to any other art form. An exquisite alchemy is involved in mixing pieces of your self and soul into the perfect blend of harmonies, melodies, and lyrics that strike a chord.

I smile as ‘Here Comes the Sun’ by The Beatles comes on straight after ‘Blue Skies’ by Noah and the Whale. I know the order the songs play is nothing more than chance, a random coincidence that occurs in the absence of intent, but sometimes it appears as if someone somewhere is trying to send me a message.

Or maybe it’s both of us they’re trying to send the message to.

We are an almost-us, after all.

Tristan’s laugh is throaty as I hum along to the lullaby tones of Paul McCartney, and after much pleading, I persuade him to sing along with me. As we go further into our soft duet, the song takes on an increasing amount of meaning as I sing to him about how I can see the ice steadily melting and he sings to me about how lonely winter has been.