In My Pocket

IN MY POCKET

“Honey? What are you doing?” she asked her husband.

“Oh, just putting back some of the knickknacks we took down when we painted the room. It looks so bare in here.”

“Now you be careful. You aren’t a young man, you know.”

“You keep reminding me of that. How could I ever forget?” he chuckled.

“Look, we’ve lived a lot longer than most everyone we know. Let’s keep it that way, shall we?”

“Yes, dear. Anything you say.”

She shook her head, laughing, as she left the room.

He looked at the boxes on the floor and the table. So many things collected from so many years. Souvenirs from yearly vacations. Pictures, lots of pictures, some in frames by themselves, others in collages. Useless trinkets meant to collect dust and clutter up the shelves, although each and every one a precious memory of something or someone.

Plaster casts of their children’s, and grandchildren’s, and great-grandchildren’s hands made in school. A small Goodyear tire, an advertising piece that doubled as an ashtray, filled with old silver coins. A small blue glass Shirley Temple pitcher that had been around forever. Various paperweights from so many places they visited over so many years. A rack of miniature souvenir silver spoons. A green glass replica of the battleship Maine. Pamphlets and brochures from attractions they visited, or were going to. A few dinner plates not meant to serve food, but to remind you of good times. Metal models of farm tractors. Three different Hess tanker truck models sold at gas stations each December. A few small plastic Army trucks and Matchbox cars.

“So much stuff,” she said, looking in the door of the room they used as a den, although it was more of his TV room. His man cave, at least as far as she’d allow. Most of the keepsakes were his, although many of the items were shared from their lifetime together.

A whole wall of pictures of their kids, grands, and great-grands as they grew from infant to adulthood, and a recent newborn photo of their newest arrival, their great-great-grandson.

When you reach your late nineties, a lot of new branches had grown on the family tree.

He sat as he looked into that last box. So many of his memories in there. Personal memories. Memories only he and a few special friends could share.

Some pins and patches from an old insurance society he belonged to in his earlier days. The old lodge closed as interest waned and members moved or died off, with pins and patches and “secret” regalia surviving in forgotten collections. An old rule book from the lodge, secrets never to be revealed to anyone under penalty of . . . something. No one knew what the penalties were, just part of the pomp and circumstance of the lodge. His special sash he wore during his year as Imperial Grand Ruler, his other sash when he was Past IGR.

Some small plaques awarded to him for leading a few community programs. A plaque with a gavel for his year as Commander of his American Legion Post. A certificate for his years of service to the fire department.

And his military service, remembered with a block of ribbons and medals, the Purple Heart he gained from leading his squadron even though wounded by shrapnel in his leg. Chevrons saved from his uniform sleeves, three up and two down, his final rank as Sergeant First Class. Hash marks from his four years of service during the war. Other patches from the units he fought with. Collar pins and whatever else he could save from his dress uniform.

The wristwatch his father gave him as he boarded the train to boot camp, saying how the watch would keep him safe and bring him home safe. Apparently, it worked. Shrapnel in the leg sure beat anything worse.

His wife walked back in as he hung the triangle wood case with the American Flag folded inside.

“I know that’s the most special out of all your Army things,” she smiled.

“Yes it is. The Flag that draped my father’s casket at his funeral. He was a hero in World War One. He saved a bunch of guys who were about to be ambushed. He was awarded the Silver Star. I have it right here, with his other medals. He was much more of a hero than I was.” A tear ran down his cheek.

“I’m not so sure about that,” she said as she kissed the tear on his face. “Look at the medals you have. You were a hero too. You led your men to win that battle.”

“So many memories, sweet and sour. Such a terrible time. Men all trying to kill each other. So many things I can’t forget. Things I can never forget.”

“But you came home. Safe. You came home to me.”

“Yes I did.” He bent down and reached into the box.

“What’s this?” she asked.

“My father gave me a wristwatch that was supposed to keep me safe and bring me home. I guess it did. It still works too. But here’s something that worked even better. This actually did bring me home safe.”

What is it?”

“This.” He handed her a faded envelope.

Her hands trembled as she opened it, careful not to tear the paper. The card inside the envelope felt fragile. “Oh my”.

She pulled out the yellowed card. On it was a simple heart, a valentine. From her.

Inside was a simple handwritten inscription: “I love you. Happy Valentine’s Day. Please be safe and come home to me.”

He smiled as his wife read the writing inside the card over and over.

“You sent me this, just after I finished boot camp. Gee, we were just teenagers. Before I was deployed overseas. I kept it with me the whole time I was over there. In my pocket, next to my heart. When I needed a boost, I took it out and read it. So many times I read it. It kept me sane, kept me focused. You, and this card, kept me safe.”

Her eyes filled with tears as the old man took the old tattered card and placed it behind the glass in a picture frame and placed it at the center of the fake wooden fireplace mantle that had been in the room for years.

“Happy Valentine’s Day, my love,” he whispered as he hugged and kissed her.