Timepiece
 
April 1, 1918, is not a date I should be familiar with, but it must be.  I read the date this morning in the local newspaper.  The date is from a long time ago, not my generation.  It wasn’t the date that caught my eye though, it was the picture of a woman of about twenty, in today’s obituary.  I didn’t know her, had no connection, but for some reason, I kept staring at this picture.  I looked deeply into her mesmerizing eyes, that warm smile, and knew she could’ve been with me, had I been there.  She was the one.
 
Newspaper obituaries have a new trend of publishing two pictures of the deceased.  The customary “last” photo, side by side with one of them in their youth.  I’m sure surviving loved ones are the reason for the change.  They want the world to see them in their original beauty or handsomeness.  The final picture doesn’t begin to tell the story, or describe through their eyes, who this person was in life.  I don’t like this trend, but must admit, I’m fascinated by the comparisons.  It’s almost like a before and after view. 
 
Her name was Kathryn, but was called Kay, and she died at the age of ninety-one.  A dark-eyed beauty wearing a large, stylish hat, black hair, and string of what looked like carnations over her left shoulder.  She wasn’t stunning, like say a movie star, but there was an exotic quality, a look that overwhelmed, that could be described by a term from that era as, fetching.  Yes, I could see myself drowning in her presence.
 
Kay wore dark lipstick, that matched her black hat, fashionable black dress, and black hair.  What stopped me in my tracks when I saw her picture, was that large, upward-sweeping hat, that might have looked silly on anyone else.  She wore it well.  Some women have that look that goes beyond attractive, beyond beauty, and leaves you fumbling, gasping for breath. This was definitely Kay.
 
In the second picture, her last, she also wore a large brimmed hat, this time straighter, and made of straw with flowers on top.  The hat tilted slightly to the right, a playful hint of flair.  Again, she wore it well.  Her hair is white, her face older, but remarkably ageless, and she’s looking straight into the camera with that familiar smile. 
 
Her funeral is Saturday, and I almost want to attend, sit quietly near the back, out of the way.  I want to see her family, see more pictures, hear fragments of a precious life missed.  The thought of it sounds strange, even though I mean nothing more than a respectful goodbye, last glance.  After all, she was the one.
 
I knew her, felt her with me, and we were timeless.  We held hands at the picture show on Saturdays, gazed longingly into each others eyes.  We sipped sundaes at the corner drug store, secretly held hands under the counter.  And when the clerk wasn’t looking, whisper sweetly, innocently, our true love.
 
I know, it’s just a picture, an unfulfilled daydream, but some days, if I let my mind wander, and look deeply into those dark, inviting eyes, I can hear the smooth, velvet voice of Billie Holiday on the hi-fi, while sitting on the couch, holding hands.  We stand, embrace, then slowly sway to the music.  She rests her head on my shoulder, her arms around my neck.  I smell the shampoo in her long black hair, the distinct fragrance of her perfume swirls into my senses.  She turns her face, smiles, I kiss her lightly, then drown myself inside.
 
Perhaps, she was captivating to my eyes only, the way love is hopelessly blind, blissfully romantic, beyond reason.  We shared a lifetime of untold happiness, and far, far more, than a passing fancy…had I been there.   


© Charles Mariano