A Summer Memory
- 3 years ago
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A Lovely Memory Ch. 00 free porn video
Prologue
What price would you pay, for just one day? Ask anyone swathed in grief or despair and I think you will find no shortage of anyone willing to leap to the slightest chance, the briefest, smallest hope that you can do the impossible, drag someone from the abyss. Undo heartache. Mistakes, goofs, cracks in a facade, repair the mirror, put the milk back in the glass, apple in the hand, restore color where there is none. To bring back what was lost. The answer, my friend, is always, ‘anything.’
A loud beeping noise woke me. It was jarring, like a spotlight piercing the night directly into my eye. Quickly, I grumbled and cursed, throwing my hand out to the glass nightstand next to me, on top of which housed a small electronic clock. I fumbled, and found the snooze button. No response. Ah, I remember now.
‘Shit!’ I yelled, and flung myself off the bed. My cloth slippers were still on. Dinner was almost ready! I had set the food to cook in the oven and had fallen asleep while sitting on my bed. My back hurt, I could feel a tight knot in my lower back.
‘This is bullshit. I’m too young to have back pain,’ I complained, to no one in particular. I hurried over to my kitchen, and pulled a pair of mittens off the white marble counter. Black cloth, with pink stitching and cat ears marked out distinctively, drawing a sharp contrast to the pale white skin of my forearms. I could feel the steam rush out of the oven when I opened the door. Inside, was a succulent lasagna, baked to perfection. It had taken many years to finally recreate the recipe, after an untimely death in the family stole the knowledge from us. I carefully placed the scorching hot pan of lasagna on the black coasters, sitting on my oak dinner table.
Yes, almost everything was in place! Where was that drat of a girl, Monica? She was supposed to have the table set already. She knows how important this day is.
‘Monica? Where are you?’ I call out. No response, only silence and a modest echo reverberates in my wooden home. It was a quaint building, surely. Not too terribly fancy, but it was customized to suit us rather nicely. Julia, my wife, had decided to do most of the decorating. I let her, of course. She had excellent taste, most of the time. Though the cat mittens went a tad too far, in my opinion. There was numerous stockings and small, colorful decorations lining the walls, pieces of arts and crafts, which was her hobby. She loved making beaded artwork, such as dream catchers. They were colorful and brought a sense of vibrancy to life in an otherwise cold home.
I turn to see the fire, at the other end of the dining room, in the stone fireplace crackle. There was fresh wood, pine. Doesn’t last too long, but is quite pleasant to burn due to it’s aroma. The fire burns very hot, so it needs to be carefully managed. I see small signs of trimming done recently while I was resting. Monica was probably just upstairs, perhaps making sure she is properly dressed for our family dinner.
I look down as I feel the sensation of itchy wool. Oh yes, the sweater that Julia made for me. It was a snowman. Yes, it was Christmas, of course, and our Anniversary. I can see the snow drifting in the windows above the fireplace, the light leaking from my home to illuminate the surface of scintillatingly bright snow, smooth, and pure. I had already salted my drivewalk, luckily. There would be no need to go outside to shovel snow when Julia got home. She worked very hard at her art gallery. Long hours, and the pay wasn’t great, but with my income and hers we managed a comfortable living. She would be home soon, then we could open presents. At the other end was a grand pine tree, decorated to the tip with dazzling ornaments and trophies. Candy canes. I never much cared for the red and white wrapped candies, but they were a core decoration, and always useful to entertain a cat with.
No matter, I’d best make preparations while Monica did what she thought best. She was a good girl. I got two brass candles from beneath my kitchen sink, painted a brilliant white, and placed them on my the oaken dinner table. They created a wonderful, light ring when they finally got to where they were supposed to be. A lot heavier than they used to be, too. I grabbed the matches from atop the refrigerator and carefully lit the candles. The shadows swooned and the light from the candles flickered and danced over the tinfoil from the lasagna sitting on the coasters. I grabbed two large wine glasses, sat them on the table, and brought over a fine vintage and set it down, in a small bowl of ice. Everything was perfect.
As I was just finishing up, I hear my front door unlock and swing inward. Julia was there, in her large black overcoat and skirt, as always. Foolish in this weather, but very attractive. I feel a gust of wind and cold air rob the room of some of it’s heat, and a small sample of light snow breezed in. I didn’t care. I was mesmerized to watch her finally be home. Julia is 5’9, rather tall for a woman. That always made her stand out, and for many of her younger years, when I first met her, it made her timid and shy. Eventually she get to use her height and the attention it gave her and became very confident, even graceful.
She took off her black overcoat to reveal a modest but luxuriously fitted black dress, loose hanging, but it clung to her in all the right places, however modestly. The dark silk material went very well with her hair color, of an auburn flame. Her skin was white, and with her hair long and flowing as it is, it often made her appear to be a candle for how much she could brighten up a room by herself. She strode forward after placing her coat on the rack, and I embraced her in my arms. Her forearms were cold, and I could feel them sapping heat from my neck and back. But her chest, her back, and her stomach was warm. I could feel the exchange of heat and it was comforting. I gazed into her beautiful brown eyes. I touched her perfectly pink lips with mine, and gave her a light, but meaningful kiss. I broke it and held her close, kissing her hair and whispering how much I had missed her.
I grabbed her hand and led her to the table, dragging her slowly behind me, tugging at her emerald ring finger. I could hear her gasp as she turned the corner and saw the dinner table set up, Christmas decorations abound, with two scented candles illuminating lasagna, her favorite. Her mother had died two years earlier before she had a chance to pass on the recipe. She never wrote it down. It took me years of experimenting to finally find it. She recognized the unique aroma and I could see tears in her beautiful brown eyes. I moved to the side, and pulled the chair out for her, and she sat down, ever so gracefully, like a cloud kissing a lily pond. There was not even a ripple, she was like air.
I sat in my own chair, and grabbed hold of her hand again, in mine. Her skin was so smooth. It was like silk. Her touch was so light, the only thing that felt real was the emerald ring on her finger, a bright brilliant stone that I had given her five years ago, today. I could see a large balm of tears in her eyes. They were falling, staining the smooth painting of her cheeks. She looked me in the eye again, I can feel how itchy they must be to her. She shook her head gently, sadly. She removed her hand, and it slipped out of her ring.
She was gone. I had forgot again. I looked across the table and found a young woman, in a white gown. She was crying. She looked at me with such sadness and misery in her eyes.
‘Monica?’
‘Yes, dad. I’m here.’
I could hear the trimmers and shaking in her voice. Her sniffling. I started to remember. It wasn’t five years ago. It was thirty. Thirty years today. I had forgot again. I held my dead wife’s ring in my hand. The emerald ring was all that I had left of her. She had died that night, in a car accident. A drunk driver had killed her on the way home from the art studio. I had begged her not to go. It w
as Christmas. It was our Anniversary. We had a fight, and she left angrily to go to work. I had made dinner to try and apologize. All I had left, was her ring. It was the only thing that could be recovered. It’s how he spent his Christmas night. Confirming that his wife lay dead. It broke him. He had forgotten again.
I started crying. Monica came over and sat next to me. She cried into my shoulder, onto my very worn sweater. My pale, wrinkled hands gingerly held onto the ring. I could barely make out the inscription done, so many years ago, through the blur of my tears. Julia, I love you. I would give anything, if you would only marry me. Anything, always.
Valentina
- 03.08.2022
- 19
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