Momentos

I kept them all. Kept them safe.

Through the years, I've kept everything, tied with the finest string, tucked gently, lovingly, into air-tight plastics, resistant to the ravages of time and the decaying powers of water, except perhaps where watery tears slice through invisible slats in my defenses, silent spells for luck slipping through love's permeable membranes, taking root.

Here they are, two generations' mementos. To me, they are sacred. It falls to me to keep them close, and well preserved. And so I keep them in the only place worthy of the privilege. The hand-carved walnut box you made in wood shop long ago, when you were just a lad, and we had only locked eyes the once across the gymnasium turned school-house dance floor.

You carved that walnut box when you were petrified to be—too tall, too squirrely, too much for this world and yet still not enough. Too brown-eyed, too curious for your own good, and far too caring. Frighten of all the right things, and the wrong things, and your shadow. Puppeted by those bigger boys with their sling shots and their traumas, always drawn to pinning down the broken winged wonders.

In wood shop you found a teacher and a mentor, someone to show you the trade, and exalt you for the natural you were. Strong hands, sharp eyes, and a keen wit. The makings of a master carpenter. With time and perseverance.

Into that walnut box you carved your heart and two small birds, one robin and one sparrow, beside a cluster of blossoms that danced with the whims of spring. On that lid, centered and middling, the carvings materialized in stark relief. You were on your way, making something from nothing. Your carpentry was art, and in no time, the town would know your name.

I stood by, too young to keep your gaze upon me just then. So I waited, and I hoped, and I dreamed. I lived my life trusting that, when the time came, you'd come find me. When we'd both be ready for something real, and something lasting.

Even then it was clear that your work was stunning, and your birds, special. They represented the two most honorable women in your life, both of whom came long before me, and whose memories I will ensure will long surpass me. Your momma, Etta Marie, who died of failures—heart, lungs, and marriages—and your late baby sister, Darla Marie, who died of humiliation after that scandal everyone denied its viler name.

~*~

Even before she lost her only daughter, she was your biggest champion, your amazing, high-spirited momma, with her walnut hair waving in the waning light, throughout the hardest of the hard-pressed days. She was steady, always steady, constantly ironing out the wrinkles, excepting those that anchored her beautiful face into the wind.

You have her eyes, those dark horse dazzling beauties. Dark as walnut-stained wood, and every bit as penetrating. How deeply they could look into a being, seeing far beyond what surfaced.

But you didn't share her laugh. Oh, no. That cackle was all her own, hard stalling hiccup of a laugh it was.

~*~

After you'd found yourself, you found me as I'd always yearned for you to do. And I was right where life told you to come looking. Where the light shines on the ocean and the birds sing with the moonlight, and the tide rolls on forever, and there's nothing here but love in all its hand-drawn shapes and honored promises.

~*~

You told me the story of how you'd presented your momma with your hand-forged walnut box. The weather had turned to balmy. Late one Sunday. Late in June. After supper.

Mere months before your father vanished with high tide.

You lot—father, mother, sister, brother—gathered at tables in your garden and ate wild-caught lake trout with porch-snapped butter beans and drank sangria. Your first taste of wine, and how your nose pinched at the tinge, but you claimed with gusto how much you liked it. Your bright eyes beaming, the pride of youth circling your cheeks, tinged redder than your father's, and you gave your gift with such tender loving regard.

Your momma took it in both hands, ran her fingers over the edges, smiled, hiccuped that wild laugh of hers, straight into a bowl of soupy tears, and met your eyes without need of any words.

~*~

She kept it by her reading chair, where she daisy chained her Marlboros, even after she knew doing so meant risking pushing daisies. Doc Hanlon came round warning her. But by then she'd lost too much. One husband to the war, a second to the lightning, and a daughter to the vail.

She tried, for you. But all too soon her stomach soured worse than kraut. Doc called it pancreatic. But Death by any other name stinks just as foul. Only name that mattered then got carved in stone.

~*~

One unexpected blessing came of it all, that terrible loss of your beloved mother. I couldn't tell you about it then. She made me give my word.

When her end was close at hand, she sent you on an errand, and called me to her bedside, where she whispered in my ear. She told me everything that ever needed knowing.

I swear she knew your heart long before you did!

It was then she offered me the greatest gift she had to give -- she called me daughter. We weren't even dating way back then!

She said she'd seen it, and she knew in her bones, how eventually you'd get round to asking. And if I said yes, when I said yes, she wanted me to have it -- that magical walnut box you'd carved from fibers of your heart.

~*~

She adored it, you know, because you made it.

She said it was far better than anything she could ever put in its fine compartments. She had no diamond ring. No valuables, just hand-me-down trinkets. No daughter to wear her mother's pearls on her wedding day.

~*~

I keep them all, her mementos. I keep them safe. The gold lockets that frame her parents beautifully. The hairbrush that was her sister's. The pocket watch that was her first husband's. The diary that was her daughter's. The wedding band that was your father's. And the pearls she bequeathed to your some-day bride!

I've added to its contents, as she always hoped I would. These dried peonies from our courtship, the ones that made me sneeze all night. And these earring and your cuff links from our wedding. And here's a lock of hair from our daughter, sweet Marie.

And this, a sonogram. Yes, my love. We're having another baby!

Here too is every Kiss you ever gave me, or more precisely, every foil that could contain it. The silver linings twinkle in the light every time I bring these trays back out into the sunshine.

_______________

Copyright © 05/06/2024 by Christy Munson. All rights reserved.