Letter: Next Time

Only six-thirty, the old mantle clock read, but he was already tired.

The half-hour chiming would, within mere minutes, stir him from his reverie.

The man – his age reflected in greying temples and permanent laugh lines etched and pronounced, his eyes crinkling at the corners when he smiled – gazed up at an angle from where he sat on the well-worn leather couch and smiled at the portrait of their then young children, hand-in-hand, walking through the field of daisies.

That was a long time ago, before the fourth child would come along.

His was a whimsical smile, playfully quaint, a fanciful smile as he recalled memories from the distant past, pleasantly lost in his thoughts.

Often on a cold, winter evening like this – blanketed and cushioned in the comfortable confines of the crinkled leather – they’d sit cuddled together and he’d read to her from their favorite romance novels.

Her eyes would close, her head would nestle against his shoulder, and it was then, thinking she was asleep, that for fun he would add his own flowery description to the scene being played out in the pages of their love story.

“The silvery sides of the rainbow trout were caught momentarily in the rays of the setting sun before the lunker splashed back into the dark pool, struggling fiercely against the line.”

‘That’s not bad,’ he prided himself, having extemporaneously provided additional color commentary to the text. ‘I should have been a writer.’

She wouldn’t stir, so he would wax yet more eloquently, with even more expression, adding yet more of his own imagination to their love story.

“The deer with its little speckled fawn. . .” and so forth he would carry on, and get carried away, but as soon as he would say “and the butterflies flitted about…” she would, without opening her eyes, say “that’s not true. Read. What’s. In. The. Book.”

It was always “the butterflies” that gave him away. It’s the butterflies he feels now as he smiles at that memory. But it’s a wistful, wishful smile. Because she’s gone now.

And as he sits on the old leather couch alone, he wishes for a next time.

A next time to have what they had, to simply do nothing, but enjoy the time they had together.

A next time to be gentle, to be patient, to listen, to genuinely care, to understand.

A next time to delight in demonstrating every day how precious, how adored, how cherished, and how treasured she was to him.

A next time to devote his time to the words and friendship and love he had for her.

A next time to pursue, to date, to defend.

A next time because there was never enough time to love and be loved like that.