High Noon and the Box

High Noon and the Box

The man, sitting on the new vinyl bench, is impeccably dressed in an aged tweed sport coat with worn leather elbow patches, a starched yellowed shirt with a button-down collar, and her favorite tie, a wide, navy and gold one with a flawless knot. His khaki pants droop when he stands, but the wing tip shoes, as ancient as the coat, are polished to a mirrored finish. On his lap, his thin, wrinkled hands gently hold a small square pink box with a matching polka dot bow. He’s attentive to it. When the wind blows a few strands of his white hair, he grasps the box tighter so it remains secure. He waits.

Not another human in sight, he settles in and begins to admire the scenery. No stranger to this area yet he always sees something new. Today the sky, normally a Tiffany box blue, shares the panorama with clouds: high, white, fluffy, marshmallow type clouds. Cumulus he recalls. They seem to move gracefully as though choreographed to music only they can hear. He remembers the day the two of them laid on that horrible, scratchy blanket and pretended the clouds were in a race. He picked one, she another. There was no finish line but somehow hers won. Besides, where do clouds go? His delight was watching her laugh and cheer. The prize--kisses. Lots of kisses. He smiles with the thought. It’s a perfect day for cloud racing, my darling.

He's surprised by a whiff of fresh dirt and mulch. Gorgeous newly planted plants and flowers replace the flora assassinated by the crippling arctic freeze from last winter. Azaleas, gardenias, roses, and honeysuckle for color and scent; tiny boxwoods, manicured to one height outline the cobblestone path that traverses and curves through the verdant ground. The short blades of grass and the texture resemble the fine, imported wool area rug they bought for their first house. No shoes were ever allowed on it. The fabric tickled the feet and cushioned their spontaneous love-making. What a rug. It was transported to all their homes: foreign or local, and now covers the floor, wall to wall, of the small master bedroom. It’s still untouched by shoes. 

Today he waits longer than usual. His shoulders begin to slouch. She’s so worth it. He twists and bends. Holding the box in both hands he stands to stretch. The box moves with him. As he pivots, he notices new swans in the pond. He walks over trying not to get too close. The banks are rocky. He could slip. Thankfully the water isn’t deep enough to drown, especially since he was a champion swimmer in college, but what a sight he’d be standing in front of the love of his life dripping wet. He continues to watch. Oblivious to this voyeur, pairs of swans nestle and nudge each other. Cozy and uninhibited in their affection they glide across the pond heading towards the eggs where both parents will tend to their cygnets. What a joy, children. They had two. Actually, it seemed like a family of four kids. Throughout their life, even in their diminishing years, the lovers remained childlike: teasing and bantering, flirting outrageously, smooching over dirty dishes, dancing and singing throughout the house, necking on the couch, every night a date night. Like the swans, they remained stubborn in protectiveness and care for each other and their family. She’s easy to love, he reminisces. The consummate wife, mother, friend, lover.

On the other side of the pond he hears ducks. Being led by their mother to the edge of the pond, the quacking ducklings are making a delightful ruckus. If he had bread cubes he’d walk over and throw it to them. The sweethearts would do that in the park. It amazed her how friendly the waterfowl became once a handful of bread was detected. No bread today. Both hands need to be on the box. Slowly he walks back to the bench. The arms on the giant clock tower register 11:50. Not much longer my love. He picks up his pace only slightly. Can’t fall. Who would hear me?

At precisely noon the chimes begin to play out the twelve notes. He moves from his place. With erect posture he strides towards the mausoleum with the gift firmly in both hands. The wind retreats. The chaotic leaves drop in place. The birds, in flight, land and surround the bench. The swans halt. The ducks cease their cacophony. Mother Nature rests. Inside he pauses. Standing in front of the wall, looking up at the small protruding shelf attached to an etched granite plaque, extending his arms to the best of his ability, he places the container holding two of her favorite chocolates: salted dark chocolate caramel and milk chocolate covered cashews, and two of his: a solid Grand Marnier truffle, and one red and white striped chocolate kiss. Satisfied the present is safe and stable he steps back. Molly Ann Frasier 1938-2017. Hello my sweetheart. It’s that time again. I’m here. Like promised. Yet every year is getting longer and harder. Once again: noon on the 14^th of February; the day and time you were born; many years later, the same date and time we met and later married; and then by that cruel twist of fate, the same date and time you died. Through the years no matter how rich or poor, in sickness or in health, we shared a small box of chocolates on “our” date and time. Today’s box holds the four we loved best. Each one represents a year without you.

Without the grandkids I’d be lost. They keep me entertained. This year they sent funny heart shaped cards. Susie put candy in the envelope and it melted. I won’t comment. They’re so involved with school, sports, dance, and dating I was touched they remembered. I sent you a card. Like always. It was the biggest I could find with cupids, lace and ribbons. Inside I put a picture of us on our last date at McDuffie’s. You looked pretty darn sexy in the flowery turban. I think I was pinching you under the table because your cheeks look flushed. I’d like to think the cancer didn’t take away your radiance. For sure, it didn’t take away your love. The hospice nurses marveled at our playfulness. The stories I could tell. I didn’t. By the way, had my annual physical. Doctors give me another 100,000 miles on all parts. I’d rather not fulfill their prophecy.

I’ll be with you soon, my one and only. There’s room for me right here. See? It’s already inscribed: Max Allen Frasier: 1937-. And my love, I promise when I arrive, I’ll have chocolates.