Love and loss.  When those two things go together it’s usually poignant.  This essay though brings tears to my eyes every time I read it.  It’s such a portrait of how we can be going about our every day business, mundane and deeply meaningful at the same time, and suddenly something happens and our lives aren’t the same afterwards.

Our member, Sonja Klein, shares this touching midlife essay about how her favorite Valentine’s Day is inextricably intertwined with losing the love of her life.

Having lived over half a century, I can honestly recall one singular Valentine’s Day which I suppose exposes me as not being prone to the marketing hype that encompasses Valentine’s Day.  Over the years I have purchased cards, candy and flowers for family, children and friends and done my share of dollar spending but as for memorable Valentine’s Days, there has only been one that I can remember.

Valentine’s Day 1997 in Texas I awoke on a cold gray day lying in my four poster bed snuggled under Grandpa Klein’s down comforter, next to John, the love of my life, at my ranch in west Texas.
 
John left the security of the warm comforter and carefully and consistently measured the coffee in the coffee maker before turning it on and returning into the bedroom to dress.    John had assumed the coffee duties because I could never make the same coffee twice.

“How hard is it Sonja to measure 4 scoops of coffee grounds and fill the pot with water to the 8 level line?

"Very hard, John, because some days are plus and some are minus and I never know which  until I make the coffee.”
      
“Let’s go to Acuna and have lunch at Ma Crosby’s.”
      
“Great idea,” as I dressed in my usual jeans and shirt.

John drove the pickup through the winding roads to Bracketville where he turned south on the highway that led to the border with Mexico and our favorite restaurant.

The signs were auspicious as we sailed through customs on the Mexican side, receiving the green light that randomly allowed us to coast through the narrow lane without stopping for formalities.
    
The parking lot at Lando’s was almost empty as we parked against the concrete wall and received the numbered ticket as John paid the attendant the usual $3 before we walked to the uneven sidewalk along the main shopping district, unresponsive to the peddlers and store clerks attempting to lure us into their shops.
    
Our destination was Ma Crosby’s Bar and Restaurant, family owned and operated since 1938.   As we walked into the corner bar, dark and inviting, we seated ourselves at the empty bar and surveyed our surroundings, old pictures of bandits and revolutionaries in black and white, family groups dressed in their best attire from the 1930’s and 40’s, and the familiar bartender in his green cotton jacket.   The bar was empty; the clock on the wall showed not yet 11 a.m. and John sighed with approval.

“Good, we made it before 11; the margaritas are all doubles before 11.”

We sipped our drinks in silence, letting the atmosphere of the years soak into our being, gathering our spirits to be in that place.   I lit a cigar as John left the room, savoring the aroma, taking me back to the years as a little girl when I would sit on my Father’s knee and watch him blow smoke rings from the occasional cigar he enjoyed.

John returned to the bar with a dozen red roses and very formally handed them to me.

“These are for you. I love you. Happy Valentine’s Day, Sonja.”

Tears fell from eyes as I thanked him and regathered myself, willing the tears to cease.  I looked away as a few remnants drained my tear glands and we returned to our drinks.   The morning droned on, the bar became noisy and we adjourned to the restaurant, ordered steak and enchiladas and snacked on the chips and sauces that the waiter had brought to our table, continuing to sip the margaritas from the bar.

The musicians wandered to our table; John slipped them some money and I was serenaded with La Paloma as our food was served.    Our hunger stifled the conversation as we cleaned our plates, paid the bill and walked hand in hand back to the car, left Mexico before the line at U.S. Customs had become intolerable and with our margarita buzz drove back to Ambush Hill before the day disintegrated.

Home safely at the ranch, John lit a fire in the fireplace, put on some music and we snuggled on the comfortable leather sofa, calm in each others presence before John became seized with diarrhea and vomiting that persisted through the evening.

“It was the sauce at Ma Crosby’s; I’m never going back there again.”

“But John, I ate the same thing and I’m not sick.”

John was better but weak and pale the following morning and three days later he was given a death sentence, diagnosed with Hepatitis C and liver cancer, and died the same year after Valentine’s Day 1997.  He was 52.   John never returned to Ma Crosby’s.
   
I did return with friends and family to Ma Crosby’s.   John and I were still there, our spirits lingering over enchiladas and margaritas - my favorite Valentine’s Day.

Sonja Rose Klein is a native Texan, graduate of The University of Texas.  After retiring, she lives in a remote canyon in west Texas where she gardens and raises sheep.   She is active in the nearby community and has won awards for her poetry, essays and short stories.  She is also an adventure traveler, having visited remote areas of the globe. She prefers the solitary journeys. 
 

LIST OF COMMENTS