May

May emerged from the mollybobs as Spring bled out.

Entangled and elf-like, she stepped over the crowfoot onto the lake's lush bank. It was a cauldron of gushing life in the bubbling green water, from which she'd surfaced, a svelte figure of verdant moulder. A flaying imago departing the mere.

Slowly she padded over the sphagnum and sundews, her sloughing tissues glistening in the vernal sunshine like torn cellophane. Tadpoles fell off. Leeches puckered harder. Her flesh rewilded and cured. Her beauteous form returned.

She could see the distant house, a half-mile down the holloway, where May once lived.

A whole three seasons had shed like skin since the incident last Autumn.

The moment where she descended into the lake's clinging eelgrass and went under the water for good.

No-one had seen her.

No-one had watched it happen.

Her husband, Ben, had no idea where she was but grieved till his heart burst and his mind caved in. 

Hers was a troubled spirit, his beloved, he'd known that from the start but she would never leave him on his own.

Or?

Not knowing where May went was worse than death. In his thoughts he buried her. In his dreams he lay down beside her in the soil.

His soul tore itself to shreds every day and his senses retreated.

The police came up with nothing. May had simply disappeared, swallowed up by the world and had been taken some place else.

They suggested she had a secret lover too, a hidden life. 

May couldn't garden her life with Ben, never mind tend a second. Ben didn't believe any of it and somehow he knew his wife was gone forever, leaving him bereft in this frigid echo. 

May arrived at the lawn, where they had made love in the warm Autumn breeze.

Ben was sitting with his back to the hinterland of the lake, staring blankly at the Sunday paper they had delivered for the crossword. 

On the top was scribbled May and Ben, Mere House, a reminder of simpler times when the sound of the newspaper landing on the mat blended into the safe easy ambience of being together in their home.

Their sloop to the poles they said to each other, their voyage to old age in the house of their dreams, may be room for another too, to fix their life completely by creating another.

But May was clouded with frets and doubts. They wrenched her apart, the pitiless gears of darkness and despair and Ben watched his beloved slide into nothingness. 

He had nursed her over many months, cared for her day and night and wrapped her in a downy quilt of tenderness and love. 

Ever so slowly his wife came to and the thick fog of her depression lifted once more. They vowed to share a simple life of gentle contentment, always keeping the darkening pack at bay.

They had made love on the cut chamomile and he was happier than he had ever been. They spoke softly of babies and families and a future spreading out like a sunlit sea.

Ben thought May was happy too.

But she wasn't.

And then she'd gone.

That had been nine months ago.

And now she stood once more on the grass, left rampant and rank like her husband's sorrow.

May strolled through the vegetation, her hands caressing the drooping seed heads and rubbing her now plump belly fat with child.

She could hear music from the conservatory. More than a feeling. Boston. She somehow remembered that it was their favourite song. In her old life. Ben remembered too. He was sobbing. 

Ben.

Ben. 

Ben, it's me, May.

The forlorn figure in the house stood up holding the crumpled paper.

Wha ... How ... May? Jesus God in Heaven, May?

Ben raced through the door into the long grass. 

May, May, May, Oh dear God May!

His wife walked towards him holding her abdomen and they met for the first time in nine months. 

Oh my God, May, May, is it really you?

It is Ben, my love, it is. 

He held her hands.

But where have you been?

In the lake my darling. 

In the lake? I don't understand.

I died my sweetness. I am dead. I took my own life, which I have regretted every second since.

But you're here, now. How could you have died?

I am the ghost of May Ben. The Lake has let me go for one single day. This day. Today. To spend with you and ...

May pointed to her belly.

Our baby.

Our baby?

Yes. Ours.

But how?

Its grown inside me, nursed by the mayflies and now it's ready.

Ready?

Ready to be born. Our child will be born today. Here. Before I go back.

Go back?

To the lake. To die finally. With the other may mothers. The flies that get one day of life. Like me.

But ...

No more questions my sweet man. Lie with me on the lawn like we did last September. Make love to me again for our time is short.

They both lay down on the soft spring moss and embraced. They caressed and kissed and Ben felt the baby move. They made love with a tender heartfelt passion, speaking quietly about their feelings for each other and how they would be together for ...

Just another few minutes Ben my darling.

May was standing over him, her belly now flat.

In Ben's arms was a newborn girl.

Is it real?

It is a ghost like me. But it will need you Ben. It will need its father if it is to grow in your world. Promise me my darling that you will keep our baby safe.

I promise my love, I promise.

Then I must go. Walk with me to the water.

Ben followed the ghost of his beloved to the lakeside, clouds of three-tailed mayflies dancing their last.

She turned to him and kissed his lips, a sugary moment already fading.

She then held her baby and warmly kissed its forehead, tears forming in her eyes.

Goodbye Ben my love. Take care of our daughter.

Goodbye my sweetheart. I will. I will.

The father and child watched as the ghost stepped into the still edge of the pool and slowly walked out to its depths, where she turned and waved before finally submerging under the turquoise water, as a myriad wings ceased beating and all other females fell.

Goodbye she whispered.

Goodbye my May he sighed.