May Our Love Be Eternal

A coldness hovered over the blinding white streets as Mr. Verratti returned from the World Trade Center. The clouds concealed the sky in a dreary grey monotone while the sun cowered behind them. Pale crystals blanketed the ground as flurry snow danced through the air. He trudged across the frosty ground, brushing a light dusting of snowflakes off his brown leather trench coat. His face contorted into a scowl as he stepped onto the welcome mat, for the gelid water had soaked his Testoni dress shoes.

Shivering, Mr. Verratti fidgeted with his keys, his hands bright red and stiff. A gust of wind blew the door open as he strode into the warmth of home. He rubbed his crooked nose, now able to pass as a long, twisted plum tomato. He threw off his coat, allowing it to drop heavily onto the marble tiles.

“Albert!” He hollered, seating himself on the head chair of a lengthy wooden table gilded in gold. No one other than himself, and occasionally Albert had occupied the silk velvet chairs. He ran his hand over the edges, scrutinizing every inch of his property for a sign of disfigurement.

A lanky man dressed in a pristine tuxedo raced into the room, holding a towel under a glass of champagne. “Sir, it’s nice to see you have returned.”

“Yes, yes.” Mr. Verratti stated, waving him off, “I’d like the Smoked Salmon Potato and Truffle Cakes with Sturgeon Caviar Crème Fraîche.”

“Of course, sir.” Albert said, “That’s an excellent choice, sir. It will be prepared with the utmost exquisiteness and class. Like always, sir.” With that, Albert swept out of the room, leaving Mr. Verratti to contemplate over his own tribulations.

With his absence, an eerie silence crept across the room. The clock ticked with an irksome reprise. Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock. Mr. Verratti slumped over, unable to maintain his dignified composure. He pulled an ornate locket from his pocket, tenderly turning it over in his beefy hands. It was no larger than his palm, the wood with a bronze chain protruding from the top of it. Mr. Verratti undid the clasp, and with a quiet click, the locket snapped open, revealing the circular photo of two figures.

They stood hand in hand, smiling joyfully in the freshly fallen snow. The first was male. He was rather striking, with glossy black hair and a luscious mustache covering his upper lip. The other was female. She had pale blonde curls pulled into a messy bun and a staggering smile that made the surrounding landscape blinding. She held the handle of the wood sled in her hands, the entirety painted neon orange and nearly impossible to miss.

Mr. Verratti ran his fingers over the rim of the locket, stroking the indented words softly. Possa il Nostro Amore Essere Eterno. May Our Love Be Eternal.

“I wish that so, my dear,” He whispered dolefully, “I wish that so.”

A sonorous chime broke the dismal silence, echoing on the stone walls.

“Albert!” He shouted, slipping the locket back into his coat.

“Sir,” Albert said, rushing into the room only seconds later, “You seem to have a guest, sir.”

“Is that so?” Mr. Verratti asked, sinking back into his chair, “Tell them I have no time for visitors.”

“I don’t think she is willing to leave, she is very persistent sir,” Albert stated. He shifted from foot to foot uncomfortably and had his hands intertwined behind his back. He escorted Mr. Verratti to the door and opened it, revealing a woman dressed from head to toe in feathers. She had pale skin like his own and platinum blonde hair matching the color of her eyes. She wore a ridiculous feather hat, five-inch Stuart Weitzman heels, and a coat undoubtedly made of authentic python skins.

“Claire.” Mr. Verratti uttered. His voice was nonchalant, yet a flicker of surprise flashed across his bulbous face.

“My dear Jesse, why must you be so sour?”

Mr. Verratti grunted, returning to his meal.

“Albert, love, you mind making me a salad?”

“Of course, Master signora Verratti,” He responded with a bow.

“Please, Albert, call me Claire. And add some flax seeds on top if you will. They say it’s rich in vitamin E. Vitamin E benefits hair and skin quality. Now that I think about it, my hair definitely needs a touch-up.” She swished her perfectly curled hair on to her shoulder and began to brush through it with her apple-red fingernails.

Claire waited until the butler had left the room before addressing her brother, “I see you’ve been, alone little brother. Thought I’d offer my company.”

“Well, you are wasting your time. I refuse your offer.” Mr. Verratti grumbled.

“Perhaps,” She answered, “but you’re stuck with me anyhow.”

Albert waltzed in, carrying a bowl filled to the rim with greens and some tan specks sprinkled on top. “Your meal, signora Claire.”

“You’re too kind, Albert. Please, it’s just Claire. And could you get my package from the car?”

“Of course, signora.”

As the sound of the footsteps fading into the distance, Mr. Verratti raised his eyebrows. “Package? I never knew you were staying.”

Claire burst into laughter, “Me, stay? Here? No, no, no. Unless, of course…”

“No.” Mr. Verratti said with a frown, “I’ll arrange for a taxi to take you back to the city right away.”

“Taxi?”

“Limousine, then?”

Claire smiled brightly at her brother’s irksome expression, “Then it’s decided. I’m staying.”

A tornado of wind charged through the doors as a trembling Albert stumbled in, holding a poorly wrapped package.

Claire clapped, “Ah, there it is.”

“What is this?” Mr. Verratti mumbled as the lump of wrapping paper was placed on the table.

“Your regalo. A gift.”

“And why would I need a gift, dear sister?”

“Why, it’s your anniversary, of course!” Claire exclaimed, “Fifteen years.”

An awkward quietness flooded the room, the only sound being the clinking of glasses on the wood.

“Well, let’s open it up already,” Mr. Verratti interrupted, “Why keep me waiting?”

Claire grinned as he searched the package for a place to rip, carefully peeling off each layer of paper. Inside lay an unforgettable orange sled. It appeared that someone had brushed a new coat of paint over it and polished the wood.

“H-how?” Was all Mr. Verratti could muster, lightly touching the skis.

“I had a wonderful friend of mine to fix it up.” Claire smiled, “Do you remember how we would throw ourselves onto the hill on this old treasure. I thought we’d never touch it again after we parted. Yet somehow Éliane managed to dig this thing up before she . . . You two had all sorts of fun on that thing, didn’t you.”

Mr. Verratti had no words, his eyes welling up as if he were meeting an old friend after many years of separation.

“Well, what are you waiting for? Take it for a ride.” Claire exclaimed. Despite her old features, she had the spark of a twelve-year-old girl waiting to have fun.

Out of his trance, he shook his head, “I’ve got business. I’m sure you do too.”

The host himself took Claire out of the house and through the garage, a grin painted plainly on her wrinkled face. “Forgetting something, little brother?”

Mr. Verratti spun around with a heavy sigh, unsure of how much longer he would be able to handle his sister nagging him. “Yes?” A glint of gold flashed through the air.

“Thief!” He shouted as Claire snatched a floaty from the wall, flinging herself down the steep hill.

Mr. Verratti did not bother to throw on a coat. He just raced after her. He grabbed the wooden sled, charging down the hill.

Heads turned to face them, likely wondering why two adults wearing immaculate clothing were sledding in a bright orange runner sled and a pool floaty as one shouted “Thief!” over and over again. But to Mr. Verratti, the world had ceased to exist. The fundamental things being himself, the sled, and his barbaric sister.

Claire spun around to face him, a teasing smile on her face. She seemed unaware of the road ahead, plausible, given her unruly nature. There was a crack, then a screech, then a hole in the fence. Mr. Verratti skidded to a stop, digging through the snow for a gold locket. The incident had cracked the wood and chipped the paint. It had shattered the glass and ripped the photo in half. A desolate sorrow encased his body. A single tear ran down his cheek, dropping dishearteningly into the snow.

“Forgive me,” Claire mumbled, placing a hand on her brother’s shoulder. She dragged the sled over, “But wasn’t that fun?”

Still bent over the locket, Mr. Verratti shrugged, “Perhaps.”

She stared at the photo woefully, “I miss her too.” Claire whispered. 

“Mmmhmm,” He mumbled. How can one recover after they have lost so much?

“But you have me now. Just like old times, right?” Mr. Verratti looked up at her, confused. He hadn’t said it aloud, had he?

Mrs. Verratti scooched over next to Mr. Verratti as his tears dripped into the snow and rubbed his back. They walked back to the house with their arms over one another’s shoulders. There was an unusual lightness to his step as if there was no longer something weighing him down.

“Possa il Nostro Amore Essere Eterno,” She whispered, “May our love be eternal.”