The box

 

Rick opens the box for me. 

The box was waiting for me in Geneva for when we returned from France. I knew it was from a man whom I've known since the 1960s. I knew it contained what his late wife, also my friend, wanted me to have.

He and my ex were both trumpet players in an Army band and stationed in Germany. We did a lot of things together including a trip to Italy. We need two cars because both of ours were two-seaters. We came back through Switzerland and as we looked at the Rheinfalls I never guessed that one day it would be my country.

A became good friends with the woman. We would explore Stuttgart on her day off usually ending up in a tea room with a good pastry. Once we ended up stuck in Frankfurt. And there was a trip to Munich so she could get her VISA to join her husband in the U.S. after he left the Army.

After we were all back in the States over the years we saw each other in D.C., Boston, Florida and Colorado some before some after my divorce. My daughter potty trained herself after seeing her daughter go potty. We met up often in Colorado where I went on many business trips. Each visit was like we'd seen each other the week before. It was that kind of friendship. 

We'd met up once more in Germany. I was living in Switzerland. She'd come to her father's funeral. We went back to the base where our friendship was formed and were amazed despite the Gulf War were let us on with almost no questions. More memories.

They moved. 

I moved. 

We lost track. I knew they were going to Arizona. I called everyone with his name. No luck. They'd moved to Oregon.

About five years ago I had a Facebook message he wanted to be my friend. We met up again, this time in Nice where their world cruise had stopped. The few hours were too short, but the feelings were just the same.

Time does not negate caring.

My friend was three years older than I was. She passed away with dignity, he said. He shared some stories. Although there had been little chance we would meet physically, we had met in our hearts.

I waited a day to open the box. It would make her death final. Rick did it for me.

It contained beautiful sweaters and scarves. She always had wonderful taste. As I touched each scarf, I knew the sweater or blouse I would wear it with, a fashion memorial.

There was also a small silver box with a necklace and a brooch. He had included a note saying that he had bought her that broach for her 24th birthday at the Kelley Barracks PX. I could see the PX, across from the cafeteria. Both were in the same building where our husbands practiced with the other band members. I pictured every floor board, every door even the ladies room. I could imagine him buying the brooch. 

So many memories go with that broach.

I took the letter he had written and the brooch to the garden where Rick was playing with dog. I started to read the letter, but I couldn't without crying. He put his arms around me until I stopped.

My life and hers have been intertwined, unwoven, rewoven, shared. We knew each others history even to little details like why she didn't like peanut butter having been given too much by the Americans when the war ended. I never made peanut butter cookies without thinking of her.

We knew our hopes, disappointments. We shared silly things, painful things. In a way all those memories are embedded in that blue broach.