THE MOURNING TREE

Samuel presently saw himself as being kind, but skeptical about many of life’s traditional ideas, which made him extremely curious about all sorts of subjects encountered in life. He lived mostly in his mind with philosophical curiosity, and in his fingers with his hands-on hobbies. He was thankful to be able to think that about himself because it was not true with some portions Samuel presently saw himself as kind, skeptical about much and of his early youth and as an adult. Once asked if he’d like to be a teenager in high school again, he responded, “Kill me now, so I can avoid that catastrophe.” He was healthy, for his advanced age, but he often felt more like an ancient, gnarled juniper tree.

In his late seventh decade he figured that after high school, life went well for him, after some very crucial decisions concerning his future. Four years of military service gave him a chance to grow more with his thoughts and decisions. Though he disliked it, he matured fast in those four years.

A portion of most mornings was given to meditation; no yoga positions, no sitting cross-legged, no eyes closed, just a dream-like stare where he saw nothing of what he appeared to be looking at, but rather, what he saw was himself at a cabin in the woods, he and his wife Sally sitting on the porch, in rocking chairs, watching, and listening to the rain as they casually sipped their coffee. He watched a gray squirrel climb a maple tree and vanish. The rain delighted him as he smiled and thought, “Even the angels must piss sometimes.” He felt mellow as he gazed into the verdant trees as their leaves shed the rainwater. He envisioned himself and Sally humming the same song, one that always reminded them how precious their lives together were. He heard himself say, “Use the time wisely.” Sam would wake at the sound of frequent traffic when people were off to a day of work.

Being thought of as a widower was a strange sensation to him. He would have preferred to die first and leave a happy, healthy widow, but he had no choice in such matters. He grieved intensely and daily at the loss of his wife, Sally. Soon after her death, he stopped eating, except for slivers of food, occasionally. He also neglected shaving, not taking a shower for two weeks, and his overall cleanliness. After a couple of weeks without a shower, when he finally took one, he could feel as if he could float a foot off the ground, the lightness attributed to the amount of dirt the shower washed away. He had lost so much weight that when he gazed into a mirror, he saw himself as a shirt hanging on a broom’s handle. He mumbled to himself, “Life is an extremely slow way to die without certain pleasures.” As he focused on his anorexic-like stature, he felt physical and mental pain and thought, “Pain places people in a small world where broad thinking, seeing the big picture, and even common sense can fade away. A person in severe pain doesn’t feel most of the normal human senses, or they become dulled, and dim because when focused on their pain, it is as if they are looking through the wrong end of binoculars or a telescope. They see a very narrow view with little peripheral vision to contemplate.” His thoughts returned to Sally.

Sally was a strong woman who ran a tight ship but was loving, caring, and kind. She was also one of the two most important people in his life. The other one was his caring son. Without them, life would be mostly empty, and unimportant. Now it was half empty and he didn’t look upon it kindly. His thoughts often segued to joining Sally.

Sam’s present existence was lonely, his depression great and his advanced age left him pessimistic about the future. He didn’t care much about the future. His future had been taken away by a merciless disease that took Sally, his wife, away from him. His wife was a better person, a caring person and a smarter person than he was. Each morning, as he awakened, his first thought was about another day without Sally. But his second thought started him humming a song that was his and Sally’s favorite reminder of what made a good marriage. Sometimes while having his coffee, he’d sit by the tree and sing, or he hummed to the tree the words to that song from his and Sally’s youth together. Fifty years of the good life. He mumbled the words, “… there never seems to be enough…” Sam continued humming but not always getting the words exactly as the song lyrics. It wasn’t as important as the overall meaning of the song’s message.

For Sam, the future was for the young and the middle-aged who still had many years of memories to build as they stepped forward with the energy of youth, bright smiles, hopes, dreams, and optimistic expectations, as well as benefitting from new technological discoveries that would make life easier, more pleasant, and more entertaining. Older folks value their many pleasurable times as does a mature tree that’s unwilling to release its last fall leaves, but when it does, the tree can then witness its memories playing tag with the friendly wind.

“… looked around enough to know…”

After Sally’s death, Sam’s daily routine became repetitive, the sameness making it boring and the predictability making it worse. He thought, “Gotta get outta bed, say ‘I love you and miss you’” to Sally, then get the coffee started, maybe have a breakfast of a single banana or splurge with maple syrup in oatmeal. Lunches usually consisted of a large salad with plenty of tomatoes, garlic salt, wine vinegar, and olive oil. He occasionally joked about the “virgin” oil to Sally. She usually winked at him, then hugged him, while Sam gently patted her on the buttocks. If she was in a bad mood and objected to the slap on the butt, she would turn around to protest, but Sam would caress her, then kiss her and the rare protest would dissolve like sugar in the heat of their moist lips. Now he existed without Sally, no more marital jokes, no more infantile puns, physical warmth in bed. No more of many things.

Without Sally, Sam’s dinners usually came from a can or a box, except for his craving and persistent need for soft scrambled eggs and bacon. On weekends he usually had dinner at his son’s home where he got to see, play, and joke with his grandkids until they were old enough to want their independence as adults. It was the same way for him as well as for his son, Roger. Children leave the home, and the empty nest can be like grieving someone’s death. Sam didn’t see much of Roger, though Roger lived in the same community. He wanted Sam to understand how busy he was at work and at home with a wife, children, plus the car and home maintenance. Sam responded by telling his son to listen to Harry Chapin’s song, “Cats in the Cradle.” It was times like these that Sam wished he also had a daughter. My daughters were more caring. He had been told that for years and had witnessed it, also.

“…you’re the one I want…”

At times Sam didn’t realize that he was mumbling the words or humming the same tune over and over like an unending song. It made him smile and be happy because it connected him to Sally and brought forth other long-forgotten but golden memories.

Sam’s empty hours were filled with reading, writing in his diary, playing solitaire, watching YouTube, and contemplation of philosophical topics, as well as time wasted watching TV movies. YouTube, an Internet site, enabled him to learn new things or see easier ways to do old things. He would drift off to sleep and dream away the night. His dreams, those he could remember, were seldom calm. There was danger, violence, painful and distorted faces, all expressed in a weird but vivid way. Sometimes Sally came to visit his dreams, but it was a weird version of her. Those dreams did not depict danger, or violence in the plot, but they were weird in the sense that the actions and words often did not make sense or were not true to her real-life character, very confusing. Sam could not interpret them, so that they would made sense. But Sally looked the same as she did at the beginning of their marriage and he welcomed those visions of her youthful face, despite the crooked grins and googly eyes that often appeared.

It was sad, he thought, that boredom had become a lifestyle instead of individual events. Old age compresses the events of the past and dims the light on the future. The temporary cure was to keep busy, have a couple hobbies, a couple friends, visit the library and the recreation center. Keep busy because when ice skating on thin ice, speed is necessary to avoid further tragedy. He often hid his displeasure with sarcasm and jokes.

He now lived in a big house that was empty except for him. Taking care of it now seemed pointless. Well, he thought, “There are times when a man’s home becomes his hassle,” and the maintenance had become pointless without Sally. He decided to sell his home and get an apartment. Then, after he died, most of the sale money would go to his son.

Sam tried to stay busy. Friends and acquaintances scolded him, “Stop and smell the roses.” He thought, “I can stop and smell the roses at my funeral and be warmly comforted in the bosom of Miss Cremation.”

Sam used to walk frequently but had gotten lazy with the absence of Sally. He decided to restart it by adding it to his morning or afternoon routine. The next morning, he dressed in the previous day’s soiled socks, unwashed underwear, his shirt-of-the-week, and his grimy jeans that cast a dark shadow over his worn and stained sneakers. He couldn’t care less about how he smelled. He hadn’t even shaved in three days.

“If I had a box for wishes…”

Exiting his ground-floor apartment (he sold the big house years ago), he came to the intersection of the sidewalks and turned right. Why right? he wondered. Simply because he was right-handed. It was a no-brainer decision, one that didn’t need a well-thought-out reason, just a turn. His eyes adjusted to the early morning haze. He squinted then ran a hand over his forehead feeling the parallel furrows. He felt the ripples from the creases in his wrinkled cheek. With one hand on each cheek, he rubbed and got the feel of sprouting hairs. Now he knew why Sally wanted him to shave every morning, plus it was needed for his job.

His yellow-stained teeth were concealed behind closed lips. But it was his eyes that radiated the story of how he felt about his age: sad, dim, dull, tearful. He thought that he’d never let himself go like this if Sally were alive.

“…looked around enough…”

One morning Sam dressed, then made his morning trip to the bathroom. As his urine splashed into the toilet water, he watched the water turn yellow and wondered why. Then the bubbles caught his attention. Staring at the bubbles, each vanished leaving smaller and smaller bubbles, air trapped in a thin film of water. But the bubbles were white, not yellow and he questioned that, too. When he was done, he startled himself by stating, out loud, “I hope this isn’t going to be the highlight of my day. If so, urine trouble, Sam.” He laughed at himself.

Sam had his cup of hot coffee. It had to be hot, or he wouldn’t drink it. He’d have to put it in the microwave. Sally thought he was peculiar to that. The thought of owning a dog entered his brain. He frequently had this thought, especially now that Sally was gone. Sally had been allergic to pet dander, so they never owned a furry pet. Sally had a large twenty-gallon aquarium with assorted and colorful fish: Discus, Diamond Neon, Rainbow, Electric Blues, Zebra, Mollies, etc.

It was early spring, so the climate was still cool. He reached for his light jacket and departed for his morning walk which was increasing a little every other week. He walked casually and carefully since he had noticed some issues with his balance. He steered clear of the sidewalk cracks and buckled cement. He greeted a few early-bird neighbors enjoying steaming hot coffee as they sat on their porches. These morning walks always took him to the cemetery where he stopped to visit Sally’s grave. He could never walk past it because there seemed to be a magnetic pull that would not allow it.

He was more and more unaware of his humming until something else caught his attention. When it passed, the words that he had hummed or spoken crossed his mind like close-caption TV.

“… I could save time…”

 He thought that maybe he should take a different direction because the sadness the cemetery caused often harmed the remainder of his day. He knew he couldn’t do that, so he pushed the thought away. It needed to be pushed aggressively since the idea was like a large boulder not willing to be moved. He would have to learn to deal with it better, rather than avoiding the cemetery on his walks. He asked himself, “Do I want to avoid the cemetery? Won’t I just feel guilty?”

Sam remembered when he would get frustrated, moody, and stressed, leading to a bad temper, Sally would tell him, “Dear, the best thing for a short temper is a long walk.” Sam smiled at the memory, especially the part where Sally would hand him his jacket and/or baseball cap and gently say, “Get outta here. The walk will wash those sinister cobwebs out of your mind.”

When at the cemetery, he would place his hand on the headstone and whisper, “I love you. Thanks for sharing your life with me.” Then he would stand motionless as his mind turned the pages of his memories book. The book was thick, so he allowed himself only a few memories each day or he’d be there for a month.

He heard a voice. “Hello, Sam. You’re like clockwork. I can predict the time of day by your visits to Sally’s grave. Nice lady, she was. Me and Martha miss her kindness. I keep her grave clean and trimmed. If there’s bird shit, bug splash, or mud, I clean it for you.”

Richard was an across-the-street neighbor. He and his wife were elderly but not as advanced as Sam and Sally. Richard and his wife became good friends with Sam and Sally. Richard had a long-term job as the head of cemetery maintenance, which realistically meant he oversaw whatever jobs needed to be done, a jack-of-all-trades kind of job. He and Sam had a running joke about the cemetery being a dirty job, and a grave but holy experience.

“Yes, she was. Thank you for saying so. So, Rich, what’s the shovel for? Your backhoe does all the digging now.”

“Oh, hell. You know that early spring is the time for planting. The cemetery grows each year (he laughed), so there’s planting to be done each year. My assistant and I plant mostly Cypress trees, some pines, some flowers, and such. Haven’t you noticed that the Cypress trees are usually dominant in most Christian cemeteries?”

“No. I don’t pay attention to types or legends about trees, but now that you mention it, point to a Cyprus tree so I’ll recognize them.” Richard pointed to many close Cyprus trees.

“OK. Now I see them all over the cemetery. So why do they dominate?”

“I read that the tradition started with the Greeks and Romans. I don’t know exactly why, but the Greeks called the Cypress tree, the ‘graveyard tree,’ while the Romans, once Christianity took hold, called it the ‘mournful tree.’ There are several types of Cypress, but you’ll notice the space-saving advantage of the ones that grow in skinny columns.”

“Yeah. They point toward heaven. Maybe that’s symbolism, too.”

“Look here, Sam. Do you want a tree that we will put in the trash? It’s sickly, stunted, like the runt puppy in a litter. With special attention, you may be able to get it to grow and flourish into a memory of Sally.”

Sam gave a thoughtful pause and hummed, “… save every day …”

Richard pointed at his assistant, then at the four-wheeler. The assistant strolled to his four-wheeler which was attached to a wagon full of trees that all looked to be eighteen to twenty-four inches tall. Cast off to the side of the wagon, as if thrown there, was a bent, limp Cypress sprout about eight inches tall and with a minimal root system. It wasn’t upright like the others but was lying down and being treated as hopeless to bother with. Richard took it from his assistant and gently pinched it between thumb and forefinger, placed it on Sam’s open palm and emphasized that it would need special attention to survive.

Sam took the tree sprouts, hurried home, entered his garage and planted it in one of Sally’s flowerpots, filled it with a left-over, but unused bag of potting soil. He watered it, placed a thin layer of coffee grounds on the surface then, daily he checked it for any growth results. He smirked as he thought of buying Miracle Grow for fertilizer because a miracle may be needed. “Please don’t die,” he whispered. As with his visits to Sally’s grave, his eyes became glassy, then the tears trickled out, followed by a cascade of tears.

“…until eternity…”

Sam now had a good reason to get out of bed in the morning. He could have his hot coffee and watch the tree grow. It was like watching the paint dry but much more interesting due to the thoughts that swirled around in his brain; pleasing thoughts about Sally and the memories they shared. He even smiled occasionally as his sense of humor partially returned. He wondered if a person enjoys ‘quiet reflection’ as he does himself, should he stand in front of a mirror and remain silent?

 By the end of April, the tree had grown an inch and was not bent. It stood at attention like a good soldier, as if it desired to be a tough, rugged, and brave U.S. Marine. It was almost as if the tree now knew that it was fighting for its survival and was feeling its progress.

May arrived with Sam treating his tree as if it were his and Sally’s baby. “My baby tree. No diapers, no breast or bottle feeding. Nice,” thought Sam with a two-tier, toothy smile. On sunny days Sam brought the tree outside, not caring about his arthritic fingers and sore back that were both getting worse. With the added fertilizer the tree grew three more inches toward the end of May. Sam replanted the tree into a bigger flowerpot with care and delicacy. Soon after that, he saw buds growing. He began talking to his baby tree. “Keep up the steady growth, little buddy.”

By the end of June, the tree had grown to a stunning sixteen inches. The trunk of the tree had grown noticeably, also. Sam wondered about the unusual growth spurt. On a June visit to the cemetery, he told Richard how well the tree was doing, then asked about the growth spurt. Richard agreed that such rapid growth was unusual, but not unheard of. “On rare occasions, you get rare results,” he said.

July turned out to be a rainy month, so Sam bought a ‘plant grow lamp’ for indoor use with his baby tree. He also bought fertilizer sticks that looked like two-inch, skinny pencils, that he shoved into the soil each month. During disagreeable weather, he kept the grow lights on the tree twenty-four hours a day. Sam now took much more pleasure from reading a book, watching TV, and even learning a few card tricks on the YouTube channel. These things allowed him to continually look at his tree with a glance, which sometimes turned into a staring daydream of a lush forest of various trees. Indeed, this became Sally’s tree as much as his. Somehow there was an indescribable and unexplainable communication between himself and the tree. He started calling it “Sally’s Tree.” Sometimes he would imagine that the tree leaned towards him, and the limbs reached for him, or that its aroma was Sally’s.

“…make days last forever…”

One morning the tree looked dim and blurry to him. At the optometrist’s office, he was told about his deteriorating eyesight due to cataracts. A prescription for stronger lenses helped. He also noted that when talking to Richard during his cemetery visits, he had trouble hearing. His ears were tested, and hearing aids were recommended and purchased. “Golden years, my fat ass,” he thought with biting sarcasm. Then, “Those golden years bullshit is simply a euphemism to make rust look, feel and seem golden.”

The last two weeks of August came with a blistering heat wave. The temperatures never go below 92F degrees during those days. Sam had his Sally tree safely indoors with air conditioning. Sam did not venture to the cemetery during the heat wave. It seemed to him that being with the tree was like intimately communing with Sally. It made him feel young and made him recall memories of him and Sally in their much younger years.

Despite being indoors for two continuous weeks, Sally’s tree grew to twenty-six (26) inches in height. Another transplant to a bigger pot was necessary. As the pots got bigger, so did Sam’s frequency of smiles and happiness. Sam would sing to the tree the tune that he hummed so frequently. He thought, just for Sally, it was important to hum or sing the accurate lyrics, so he found them and memorized them though he already had a ninety percent accuracy with the words.

“… there never seems to be enough…”

In the third week of August, Sam had a health scare. A mild heart attack. He was able to call 911 for this emergency, and then spent a week in the hospital. He arranged for Richard to care for his tree. He missed it and asked about going home early, but his request was rejected. Richard and Sam’s son came to see him and assured him that the tree was doing amazingly, so Sam didn’t protest the hospital stay.

At the end of August, Roger picked Sam up at the hospital and brought him home. Sam limped as if he had hurt his leg. “A new injury,” Roger thought. “How the hell could that have happened in the hospital?” Roger saw his dad walking slowly, hunchbacked over a new cane. He seemed to have aged rapidly while his tree took on new vitality with growth spurts. When Sam entered the house, he waved goodbye to Roger. Sam closed the door and walked immediately to his Sally tree. To his surprise, his friend, Richard, had not informed him that his tree had grown to be about three feet tall and was ready for another larger pot. Sam smelled the tree and placed his hands on the lush foliage. His fingers tingled. He lifted them, palms up, and wondered if the tingle was a delusion, then he felt warmth and pressed his palms against his cheeks. They were warmer than his body heat would be.

“…to do the things you want…”

Sam began seeing the tree in his dreams; good, happy dreams. He was awakening joyfully and with energy as if the tree had revived him. He walked briskly around the house as he enjoyed his coffee, then walked to the cemetery where he renewed his friendship with Richard. Richard never mentioned the tree, never mentioned Sam’s strange relationship with the tree (treating it as a beloved pet), the unusual tree growth and health while Sam was becoming physically frail when just a few months ago Sam was in fine shape for his age. Secretly Richard wondered about the deterioration of Sam’s mental and physical health but felt that he couldn’t mention that either unless Sam asked him.

In September Sam developed a constant cough. He thought it was an early flu symptom and postponed a visit to the doctor until he coughed up blood. His doctor sent him to a local hospital for an X-ray. Sam had lung cancer, an extremely rare occurrence for someone who had never smoked. Now, on some mornings, he stayed in bed. The medications and his depression acted as restraints, as if he were strapped to the bed. On those days he would watch TV all day and only get out of bed for the bathroom, food, and talk to his tree.

One morning he felt good enough to get out of bed, but he stayed in his pajamas. He cooked eggs for breakfast, with toast and coffee. He kept looking at his tree and thought he was seeing an illusion. Had his tree grown another six inches? Sam grabbed his yardstick. It was too short. Sam opened a drawer and grabbed his tape measure. His eyes shined when he read forty-two inches. He stood in front of the tree, his lips moving silently to his memorized tune.

“…you’re the one…”

Richard’s wife, Martha, had Richard bring Sam his dinner each night until Sam’s son, Roger, and Martha took over that duty. Roger would visit in the early evening, bringing a dinner plate prepared by his wife. Roger asked Sam to come live with them, but Sam was adamant that he would not do that. He said, “I’ll not leave this apartment and put the burden on you and Martha, and I won’t think about not being with my tree.” Roger had learned long ago that once his dad settled on an action or an inaction, there was no changing his mind. Each evening father and son hugged, shook hands, and departed, neither aware that the other one would soon be crying. “Man up!” was what Sam said to himself after he closed the door each evening.

“…make wishes come true…”

November arrived with the first snowfall and brisk chill. On Saturdays, Richard came regularly to Sam’s house where they played cards, drank Southern Comfort whiskey in their coffee, and ate disgusting and fattening foods, but laughed hysterically about it, in between Sam’s coughing episodes. Sam had grown weaker, so on Sundays Roger, his wife Darleen, and their children Shelly and Danny came to visit. Sam loved all of them. When Roger and Darleen took the kids away from the TV, Sam said, in his recently acquired, hoarse-sounding voice, “That’s how kids are. Let them enjoy the TV. I have ice cream and oatmeal cookies for us, and then the kids can come to the table for that. Kids think they are immortal, so death means little to them. I prefer it that way if you don’t mind.”

“…every day is a treasure…”

Sam was invited to Roger’s and Darleen’s Thanksgiving dinner, but he felt too weak to leave his house, nor his tree, which was now five feet tall, a miraculously splendid green that had the look of royalty, according to Sam’s bragging. Thanksgiving dinner was brought to Sam’s house where he apologized to Darleen for the inconvenience, then kissed her on the forehead. Sam only ate a little of the turkey’s dark meat, some mashed potatoes, and gravy to cover both. Roger knew what to get his dad for dessert. Vanilla ice cream and strawberries, a loaded “Strawberry Sundae.” Sam watched his grandkids drool ice cream over their lips and down their chins. Before their parents could protest the mess, Sam looked at Roger and Darleen, placing his right forefinger to his lips, smiling as he mumbled, “Kids are kids, universally messy. Roger, you should remember that, right?” Roger gave a guilty grin which turned into a smile of acknowledgement. The trio of adults smiled at each other, agreeing with the simultaneous up and down movements of their heads.

Sam asked Roger to transplant his Sally tree into a bigger pot, then place it on a dolly cart and roll it into the bedroom where he was spending

more time as his condition worsened.

“It’s five feet tall, Dad,” Roger protested, “and probably heavy. Are you sure about this?”

“Very,” was Sam’s laconic response. Then, after a pause, Sam whispered, “Please do it for me, son.”

Roger performed the job and as he huffed and puffed, while the kids could no longer contain their repressed laughter, encouraged by Grandpa Sam and Darleen. Roger said to his wife, “You like work, don’t you? You could watch me, or anyone else, work all day, right?” A chorus of laughter followed.

After a splendid dinner, Sam and the kids watched one of the kids’ favorite comical TV shows. The kids kept saying, “Funny, huh Grandpa?” After the show, Sam asked the kids to sit by him while he read to them from the short novel, Where the Red Fern Grows by Wilson Rawls. Sam paused often.

“…to do the things you want to do…”

Roger and Darleen admired Sam’s Sally Tree, mentioning that it would outgrow the house. Sam agreed, saying, “It won’t be here much longer. I’ve made arrangements with Richard to solve that problem.” They knew who Richard was, knew his job, and automatically assumed the tree would be planted someplace in the cemetery. They prepared to leave, not wanting to get Sam too tired.

Sam was tired and decided to go to bed early after brushing his teeth. It was only eight o’clock, but he wanted to watch TV, and maybe read more of his Lee Child novel featuring Jack Reacher. That’s exactly what he did, then sang to Sally Tree.

“…the memory of how they…”

Less than a week later, in early December, Sam died peacefully in bed. He was found by his son; eyes open as if staring at the Cypress tree. The Lee Child novel was opened to the last page and sitting on his chest like a bird with fully spread wings. He had finished the book and finished a long life. His last thoughts were of Sally and Roger followed by humming.

“…and you’re the one I want to go through time with…”

Sam was buried in the plot, side-by-side next to Sally. Richard planted the Sally Tree between the headstones.

When visiting Sam’s and Sally’s graves, Richard, relatives, and even strangers who were passing by said they heard a whispering breeze coming through the Cypress tree. The breeze carried an old tune, but they couldn’t think of the name of it.

A week later, when Roger was clearing things out of the apartment, to put into storage, he noticed that, on his father’s dresser, there were two transparent, round glass bottles, about three inches tall. They looked as if they might have been expensive at one time. Each bottle had a heart etched on it. Inside one heart, his mom’s name was itched and inside the other heart, his dad’s name was etched. Both looked old. That fact was confirmed when he noticed all the bubbles trapped inside the glass. Glassmaking had not yet been refined when the bottles were made. Roger’s puzzlement doubled when he felt the opening of each bottle where a cap should be. What he felt, however, was solid glass plugging and sealing the openings which made each bottle watertight. Inside his dad’s bottle was a gold man’s watch. Inside his mom’s bottle was a woman’s gold watch, both watches made by the Bulova Watch Company.  Roger thought, “It must be an old company, out of style because I haven’t seen any of them in years. Roger wondered about the significance of the bottles. He’d never been told about the bottles. Then he noticed the aged, yellowing notepaper that the bottles had been placed on. “Please give these bottles to Ralph,” is all it said. Then Roger noticed that both bottle openings had been sealed watertight as if molten glass was substituted for a metal or plastic cap. Roger didn’t think much more about it. He was busy and, in a hurry. He’d go across the street, when he departed, and give them to Ralph, or to Martha if Ralph was not home yet.

          When Ralph came home, Martha said, “Roger brought these bottles and said he found a note from his dad saying they should be given to you.”

 “Yes, Dear. I know what they are and what I’m supposed to do with them.”

          “So, tell me. What are they for and what do you do with them?”

          “I’ll tell you later, Martha.” He walked out the door and returned to the cemetery, grabbed black duct tape, tapped the bottles together so the hearts touched, and then grabbed a shovel and a rose plant. With tears blurring his vision and his heart pounding rapidly, he buried the two bottles under the mourning tree. He looked at the grave. “You’ll be missed, my friend. Maybe I’ll see you soon.”

NOTE: The song being hummed and written about is the 1968, Jim Croce song “Time in a Bottle.”