The Magic of Our Time Together
I sit at the kitchen table, vacantly staring out of the window into space. The sun has begun to set. The skies have a reddish tint to them. It is the end of October, but we are experiencing a treat: glorious Indian summer days that are very loath to depart! Summer is drawing its last breaths before the weather reluctantly changes into autumn.
It is my birthday today. My mind wanders back to the carefree, happy days when Peter was alive. We did not exchange gifts with each other on our birthdays or on our anniversaries. We had everything we needed. On those occasions, we would treat ourselves to a special evening out. Peter would arrive with a bouquet of my favorite miniature pale pink roses. As he entered the house, he would call out cheerfully, “Hello! I’m home!”
In the meantime, I had spent my time making sure I was well coiffed and well-dressed for our special date. Just hearing his voice made my heart leap with joy. I would float down the stairs. He would stand at the bottom of the stairs with a huge smile beaming on his face and the roses in his hand. By the look on his face, I knew I looked good. He would make a slight bow and say, “Milady, are you ready?” Of course, I was ready! I was ready for any adventure he suggested. I thanked him for the roses. Together, we walked to the kitchen to put them in a vase; then we proceeded on our way.
Our special occasions began with dinner. He personally chose a restaurant that had either had a good review or was highly recommended by someone. That was followed by attending a play that we wanted to see. He delighted in arranging these outings. He put great thought into what he had meticulously planned for these outings, and it showed. Each of these occasions is indelibly imprinted on my memory because of the love and the thought he put into them. He loved to plan them. For weeks, he would pore over the reviews on the computer and in the newspapers to find something special, and they truly were! One time, he discovered a tiny theater where a Persian woman had written and produced a play about Iran! I don’t know how he came across that. The author-producer became well known. Her name is Neguin Farzad and she is now often on National Public Radio. I felt so blessed to be married to such a caring and loving man. What a very special and wonderful man he was, my beautiful Peter!
On Friday nights, if we did not have any previous engagement, we would go out to dinner and a movie. We discovered a quaint little restaurant with German food not too far from his office. On the weekends, a three-piece band played there. Sometimes, on a Friday night after work, we would go there. We enjoyed the food and the music. The place reminded me of a restaurant in my home in Tehran, a lifetime ago. We often went there. Alas, as happens too often, this restaurant unfortunately was not able to survive. Was it because it was situated in an out-of-the-way area? We had discovered it by fluke. It was a delightful place, and we regretted that they were not able to stay in business.
One of our most special date nights was not a date night at all. It was the dead of winter, and it was snowing relentlessly. Because of the winter snowstorm warning, Peter had come home early. I remember that I had prepared chicken cutlets with mushrooms in wine sauce, mashed potatoes, and peas. It puzzles me why I remember the menu in such detail, but I do. The radio in the kitchen was playing soft music. The skies had turned into a curtain of white as the snow rushed to the ground. I did not draw the curtains. We gazed out at the sight of the sheets of falling snow in fascination. After our meal, we went to the living room. The logs in the fireplace snapped, sizzled, and crackled. The room was lit just by the light of the burning logs. The reddish hue of the fire and the shadows seemed to be dancing sensuously about the room, giving it a special, intimate feeling. As in the kitchen, the curtains were not drawn, but the heavily falling snow lent a sense of privacy.
We began to dance slowly to the music that drifted in from the radio in the kitchen. It felt so magical and so beautifully haunting. The utter hush of the outside world added an additional intimacy and a sense of peace to that evening.
To me, our lives together had indeed seemed magical and beautiful, yet not long enough. No, it was never long enough! I wished we had more time; much, much more time. But that was not to be. I have to be grateful for the time that was given to us, but I am greedy…
I look up and realize that night has fallen. In my reverie, I did not realize how the time had flown. It is late. My reminiscing has come to an end for the time being, but my love for that sweet man will never cease. I lock up the house and slowly trudge up the stairs to get ready for bed.