Remembering
1
"I remember our first picnic and how you laughed when the little critter crawled outta the leaves. Most gals would of screamed if'n a beetle crawled on their hand, but, not you. You jumped, just a little, then you laughed. I reckon that's when I knew you wasn't like most ladies. I wish . . . I wish you were still here. Not just for me, but for all of us. I picked these up on the hill. You remember, up by the big pine where we all carved our initials. Well, I'd best be gettin' along. I'll just leave these . . . right here. They're your favorite, daffodils. I remember pickin' them with you 'n' you tellin' me the only thing that smelled prettier was my curly hair after a good, long bath. Daffodils sure are pretty, just like you."
As he stood, his right knee cracked, though no notice was paid. His focus was on his fingertips as he caressed the letter on the sun-warmed stone.
2
"I picked your favorite. Lavender. I'll never forget our private picnic. That's when you told me you loved lavender, too. You knew how much I was missing Pa while he was away in Utah Territory. You always knew, sometimes even before I did. You know, at the time, that really annoyed me. But looking back, it was pretty amazing. You, I mean. You were amazing. I thought I was good hiding my feelings, my frustrations . . . my fears. But you saw right through them all, just like Pa. We miss you. I miss you . . . Looks like someone else has already been here. Lavender looks good next to daffodils."
He stepped back to admire the placement of the flowers, smiled at their beauty in the noon-day sunshine, then continued on his way.
3
"I see you have some flowers . . . daffodils and lavender. Not your favorite, but they sure are pretty. I'll just put these in the middle . . . There. Your favorite, roses, right between the others. I remember your green eyes and how they danced whenever I brought you roses. Even when I picked them without your permission! Even when . . . Even when I'd bring you a few tiny petals I'd collected from the ground beneath your prized rose bushes. Just a petal or two. And you'd smile. I remember roses and your smile. And the way the world would become the safest, happiest place I could imagine . . . I miss you. No. That's not true. 'Miss' doesn't even come close. I . . . Well, I . . . I have to go."
His tears, glistening in the mid-afternoon sun, trickled down his tanned cheeks as he hurriedly mounted his horse. After one more glance at the trio of bouquets, his lips quivered as he spurred his ride to a gallop.
4
Why am I not surprised? Three gorgeous bouquets. And mine is the last. It took a little doing, but I found them up on the north ridge. Yellow sagebrush. I'll never understand why you chose this as your favorite flower. The blossoms are so small . . . I remember the ride that day from Virginia City to the Ponderosa. We stopped just before the main road to the ranch . You said you needed to walk a bit, to steady yourself. And you picked sagebrush for the dining table. You said it was your favorite and the sweet, earthy fragrance would help calm you. I'm not sure who was more nervous, you or me! But I do know who was more courageous. It was you, walking into a brand new life in a rugged, violent land . . . and a ready-made family with sons you'd never met. My God, how arrogant I was to ask you to put yourself in that situation! Oh, how I loved you . . . and love you still. We miss you. Each and every day. And I miss you, especially, in the silence of the long, empty night. Happy Valentine's Day, my love."
A gentle kiss on the chilled, shadow-shrouded stone left a temporary print that quickly evaporated in the early evening air. The heavy sadness weighing in his heart settled in his legs held him fast to the spot as he traced the letters long-ago etched into the stone. A gentle breeze wafted the blend of daffodil, lavender, roses, and sagebrush upward, releasing the emotional hold. He smiled, a familiar yet haunting calmness settling in his soul. He had two more stops to make, two more angels to visit, each at a place secret to him, alone, and the perfume filling his lungs gave him unspoken blessing to do so.