What L-O-V-E Looks Like

“Don’t forget your bucket,” she called from the kitchen.

Only 7:00 AM and she’d already gathered enough words for that reminder.

“How does she do it?” he wondered as he shrugged on his heavy coat and slid his

hands into his gloves. The gloves, slightly oversized and well worn in the palms and at

the fingertips had been her gift to him.... how many years ago now? At least ten. He

believed in making things last, in the value of taking care of everyday items. “They’ll see

you through if you’re careful,” he often thought to himself.

Now, though, with the doctor’s words from last week’s visit still ringing in his ear, he

feared maybe he had not been careful enough with her... with his wife, whose body

was, and apparently had been for quite some time now, winding itself down.

She was behind him, quiet as a cat, handing him his lunch and patting him on the back.

“Have a wonderful day,” she sang out as he strode out the door. He turned and waved

back, not speaking a word. She was used to that, the silence that surrounded him like

the heavy coat. Of course she was used to it. His bucket was almost always near empty.

Of course there were the leftover words sliding around in the bottom, like forgotten

flyers in the back of a mailbox or scraps of notebook paper in the bottom of a book bag.

Words like “M-O-M-E-N-T-O-U-S” and “F-L-A-G-R-A-N-T” and “E-P-H-E-M-E-R-A-L.”

When on earth would he possibly ever find a use for words such as those? Certainly not

down at the textile mill, standing at a cutting machine for hours at the time watching the

fabric spill onto the floor like carpets of color. No, words like those just weren’t any good

to him at all.

That’s why, when everyone else seemed to be racing around, buckets held straight out

in front of them, eyes to the sky as if beseeching an unseen god to rain down the very

words they needed at that exact moment, he looked downward and watched his feet as

they moved forward... forward towards work and home and work and home again.

“Ridiculous pursuit,” he thought. “If we were meant to speak at will, the heavens would

rain down every word we needed night and day.”

“But that’s not how it works, is it?” he conversed with himself. “Of course not.” The

words come sporadically, randomly, day or night, at alarmingly varying speeds, and

even in languages ancient and long forgotten. “That’s just how it is. No need trying to

make sense of it.”

There had been times, of course, when he was younger and everything seemed so

much more.... vital... that he searched the skies himself, hoping to find clarity and

understanding. Hoping for the words to fill the silent canyon between himself and those

around him. Hoping to find the combination of letters that would connect him, that would

make him a part of this life he lived on this wordless earth where you relied on the

heavens to rain down all that you were destined to speak for the time you are here.

He glanced over at his bucket as he walked. “Useless thing,” he thought. “Always

hanging off my arm, like a lifeless limb. I’d do better to shuck it off and drop it right here

on the side of Main Street.”

He glanced around him and continued speaking in his head. “There goes Mrs. Fallon

from down the block. She’s staring straight up, oblivious as usual, not even seeing that

car...”

A blaring honk interrupted his thoughts. Mrs. Fallon stopped short and then gave a

quick wave to the driver, another neighbor, who waved back and motioned her apology.

“Silly folks,” he thought.

And yet, Mrs. Fallon did not seem phased. In fact, she grinned as she turned her eyes

heavenward again, still searching, bucket at the ready. Before he resumed his

downward-focused trek, he glimpsed a word falling from the sky. With a flick of her wrist,

Mrs. Fallon’s bucket moved directly underneath the word, which landed softly on the pile

that was already accumulated there.

From this distance, he could see the big bold letters on the crisp white slip of paper

forming the word “G-L-O-R-I-O-U-S.” Mrs. Fallon reached in and caressed the word on

the paper and smiled as she said, loud enough for him to hear, “Glorious!” The moment

the words left her lips, it disappeared from her bucket. She stood there a moment,

smiling at the sky, and sighed. Not a sad sigh, not one of regret... one of pure

satisfaction.

“Delight,” the word sprang to his mind. “She’s perfectly delighted with that one simple

word, like she’s found a twenty dollar bill tucked in last year’s winter coat pocket.”

He felt it, that stab of separation, of “differentness,” that he often felt when watching

others catch words in their bucket. When was the last time he’d felt that kind of flagrant

satisfaction? When had he last been so at peace with the world? Or with himself?

He honestly could not remember.

Was it the day he met his wife? Certainly that was a good day, but it was hardly

momentous. Not really. He hadn’t known, the first time he looked into her eyes, that she

was who he would spend his years with. He’d known simply that she was new to the

neighborhood, that she looked pleasant enough, and that she reached out her hand to

shake his. He’d never shaken a woman’s hand before. That was something reserved for

the fellas at the pub or the new boss at the mill.

He slowly learned that she was kind, full of common sense, and eager to encourage

him. It may not have started out as love, but it became that... over time. And through

the years, down the roads of life, he’d certainly loved her. He loved her still. Could not

imagine his life with any other companion.

But he had never said it. Not one single time. In his entire life.

There - that was the horrible truth of it. That was the bottom line, really. That was the

one word he’d never caught in his bucket. Not once.

His wife must surely be hurt by that, be greatly disappointed and even sad. “If she is,

she’s never shown it,” he reminded himself. “Not once. The smile on her face is almost

as constant as the emptiness of this ridiculous bucket.”

But still it gnawed at him, this persistent feeling of having let her down, having failed

utterly.

All day, as the hours ticked by and his back and feet throbbed and the fabric at his feet

cut, folded, and was removed countless times in its never-ending cycle, his thoughts slid

back... back to the exam rooms with the dull green walls, the too-bright fluorescent

bulls, and the doctor with his hand in his pocket and a well-practiced look of sympathy in

his eyes.

He knew they were hardly the first couple to learn that one would be leaving the other in

a way they had not planned for, never even conceived of. He knew this happened every

day, everywhere. But this was the first time it had happened to them.

And it hurt. It hurt so much. It shocked him how deep the pain went - deep enough to

leave him weak-kneed and short of breath. It hurt enough that now, this very day, he

knew he had to find a way to capture that word. The one word that would tell her what

was in his heart. He had to find L-O-V-E.

The end-of-day bell rang at last. He watched his feet as he walked out the door. Once

out in the open air, though, he tilted his head back and looked up towards the moon

overhead.

How bright it was! He didn’t have the word M-O-O-N in his bucket, or any other words

he could use to describe it to his wife when he got home. She would never know how

the beauty of it struck him.

He walked slower than he had in ages, scouring the sky. Stray words fell here and there

like stray snowflakes after a winter storm. But none of them was L-O-V-E. Step after

step, block after block, the skies yielded nothing useful. Down drifted the words

C-H-E-V-Y, E-A-R-L-O-B-E,even R-A-L-P-H. But no L-O-V-E.

The bucket at his side rubbed against his leg as he moved, prompting him to look down

at the scraps of words at the bottom glowing in the moonlight. He spied the word

E-P-H-E-M-E-R-A-L and realized, suddenly, that here was a word he could give her. A

word that would help him share the moon and how it was so temporary, like (it turns out)

she was. Just like life itself.

Tearing his eyes from the shining sky, he realized he was on his own doorstep. And,

before he could knock, here she was - waiting for him with the warmth of the fireplace

spilling out around her, the smells of dinner in the air, and her smile where it lived on

that lovely face.

He held out E-P-H-E-M-E-R-A-L, his gift to her that he hoped would help her see the

moon as he saw it tonight. In his hand, though, the paper he offered seemed

insignificant. Would this even give her a hint of how he was feeling?

She smiled at the word and said, “Ephemeral... like the moon” and pointed upward.

He nodded his head. How did she know that’s what he meant?

She nodded at him and said, “It’s lovely.”

He looked at her with pleading eyes, so very sorry that he’d never found that one

eternal word that would tell her his heart. She simply kept smiling and pulled him into

the warmth of their home.

SIX MONTHS LATER

The letter was sitting on the table in the kitchen next to the single plate and fork. It had

been weeks now, and still it felt like a fresh blow to eat alone - every single meal, every

single day.

The letter wasn’t there this morning, but here it sat this evening, real and waiting. He’d

learned to accept than when it came to words, just about anything could happen.

He opened the envelope and took out a single sheet of paper and read these words in

silence:

My sweet husband,

You are missing me, I know, just as I am missing you. Where I am, everyone has all the

words they can dream of, so I’m going to share some with you now.

There are things I need you to do for me, please.

Don’t eat alone at that kitchen table. Eat outside on the porch, or invite a friend from

work to eat with you. Have our neighbors over. Eating is a much happier experience

when you share it with others. Buy yourself a new coat and some new gloves. Those

old ones have served you well. You deserve something new and comfortable. Spend

the money you’ve earned on nice things that will make your life better. Don’t forget your

medicine. That’s very important. I want to see you again soon, but not sooner than

you’re meant to be here. Retire right away. Quit working and start living. Keep watching

the sky. There’s so much beauty in the heavens, so much more than scraps of paper.

Look for stars and comets and wish on them all.

Stop fretting about the things that have been left unsaid between us. I know that’s

bothered you for such a long time. Don’t you know by now that love is spelled so many

different ways? Every time you held my hand when we crossed the street, that was you

saying you loved me. Every time you walked to work and stood on your feet and came

home again to me, that was you saying you loved me. The way you are standing in our

kitchen right now, reading this letter and crying for the life you miss, you are saying you

love me.

I had L-O-V-E in my bucket every day because you gave it to me.

I’ll be waiting right here.

You Wife