"Ta-da! Go on, open your eyes!"
He could not contain his excitement. He'd
been working on this labour of love, in secret, for weeks now. Almost as long
as he'd been taking art classes. It had occurred to him, shortly after
reigniting this long lost passion, that a painting would be a perfect
expression of his devotion to her. It was, after all, one of the few skills he
unhesitatingly prided himself on.
He held the painting against his chest,
facing her. He deliberately wanted to be positioned that way, so he could
instantly gauge her true reaction. He knew that she would feign approval even
if she thought it were rubbish, because that's who she was, always thinking
about the feelings of others. It was one of the countless reasons he adored her
so much. But this was not a time for tact. He desperately hoped she would be as
enamored with it as he was with her.
"Did you paint this?" She was
clearly impressed. "It's beautiful". Her eyes glistened - were they
welling up?
"Happy anniversary, angel. It's an amaryllis.
Eet ees an amaryllis belladonna lily to be exacte", he explained, in the
most tragic, affected Italian accent he could muster.
"It signifies splendid beauty, a very fitting choice I
thought", he looked straight into her eyes, holding her gaze, hoping
to convey the depth of his sincerity.
She looked back, then briefly looked away.
Open displays of affection didn't come as easily to her. He understood. Her
natural disposition for as long as he'd known her had been, in a word, demure.
Another trait he found intriguing ever since their first encounter in that
Sociology tutorial, 7 years ago.
He'd noticed her when he'd walked into the
room, sat alone and in silence, facing the front. It was hard to tell whether
she was painfully shy and wishing the tute away, or if she was the studious
sort, eager and ready to take on the discussion. He'd decided to find out for
himself, choosing to take a seat beside her. She glanced over as he did,
catching his eye. He was captivated. Truly, madly, deeply.
Her chestnut brown eyes. There was
something other-worldly about them. He plucked up the courage to speak to her.
He'd been wrong on both counts; she was not shy. Demure, yes, but she could command a
conversation, simultaneously articulate and witty. He even managed to get her
to agree to give him her phone number. And while she had a far superior work
ethic to himself, she was not so rigid that she wouldn't return his notes in
class.
'I
completely agree with you on gender playing a pivotal role in shaping our
attitudes and behaviour...' he
scrawled, desperate to find a talking point that would take them beyond
introductions.
‘I
also think religion, ethnicity, socio-economic background and one’s name play an
equally vital role, don’t you agree? she wrote back. Then, ‘what’s YOUR name?
They'd been inseparable ever since. He'd
proposed a year later, and they'd married within 3 months of their engagement.
He would never forget how she looked on
their wedding day, the most exquisite bride to have graced this earth, he was
sure.
As he watched her take in the painting,
he felt a sense of relief and elation. Seven years. Here they were, together,
as strong as ever.
"I love it. I love you", she
whispered.
Those eyes.
They embraced. Today was a day for happiness.
.....
"Ta-da! Go on, open your eyes!"
He'd always been one for surprises. He
could still take her breath away with his magnanimous acts of love.
"Happy anniversary, angel...”
Their anniversary. Seven years
to the day since they'd met. Being the romantic that he was, he'd insisted that
it be this initial meeting that should be celebrated, because that is when 'I
really came to be alive, so it is, in effect, a birthday and anniversary
rolled into one', he'd declared, poetically.
The painting was... beautiful. She
could feel herself becoming overcome with emotion. Breathe, she commanded. This
is not the time.
She adored flowers, and set aside a small
budget to buy fresh flowers weekly. Sometimes, if it had been a
particularly good week work-wise, she'd splurge a little, and buy lilies, her favourite.
Most weeks though, she was just as content with a few chrysanthemum stems.
The Japanese considered them to be particularly symbolic, celebrating them
in their annual Festival of Happiness. What better way to express thankfulness
for this happy union of theirs than by touching their home with these flowers?
He was her happiness. There was
nothing abstract about it - no, it was deliberate, active, tangible.
'He 'happies' me', she thought, forcing a smile through the competing emotions.
Ever since he'd waltzed into class that
day, all those years ago, meeting her gaze and boldly asking for her number,
he'd been hers. Completely, devotedly, loyally hers. She knew this, and knew
such devotion was no trifling matter. She cherished his commitment, and
reciprocated it.
Love had not happened so instantly
for her, but had grown, blossomed from a seed of pure intention, nurtured in
moments of togetherness and fortified by the inevitable trials that life
brings.
But nothing had prepared her for this. How
can it? Youth was no immunity, it would seem. Perhaps it was unfair to be so
happy.
Breast cancer was a post-menopausal
disease, she'd thought, naively, as she drove to the surgical oncologist for
her biopsy result. But not always, as it turned out.
She took the canvas, carefully placing it
on the mantle, for now. She would hang it in the dining room, across
from the window overlooking their garden. That way, when they dined,
they would be held by flowers, a beautiful image to behold in his
minds' eye for the coming years. It would ease the pang of loss, she hoped,
giving him idyllic points of reference for his travels down memory lane.
She stepped towards him, looking straight
into his gentle blue eyes.
"I love it. I love you".
They embraced. Today was not a day for
sadness.
