Make conversation impossible.
He looks straight ahead as he maneuvers the tricky country lane.
I sit beside him in quiet terror.
Windows rolled down, or just gone, the wind runs through the cab.
It is sweetened with the scent of clover
And it is choking me.
We cross the wooden bridge with fingers crossed
The bridge is in worse shape than the truck.
I look down quickly at the creek, visible through the bridge planks.
Brown water, frosted with the shimmer of sunlight.
And weeds. Weeds everywhere.
Left turn at the fork in the road. Right fork drops off the edge of the hill.
Tall trees shade the dirt road and the temperature in the cab drops noticeably.
That’s better, I think to myself.
Another turn, this time to the right. Where are we going I wonder.
I ask, again, and the answer is silence, again.
Why did I let him talk me into coming with him?
The kids are at grandma’s for the weekend. I need the break.
I have so much to do and so little time to get it done.
Why did I give up this valuable time to go with him?
My ears hurt from the horrible rattling,
My back is sore from all the back-breaking potholes we’ve been through.
What could possibly happen to make this worthwhile?
Suddenly, his stoic, expressionless face comes to life with a smile.
For an instant, I think I see the young man I married so many years ago
Sitting next to me in this god-awful truck.
He looks at me for the first time since we left home. “Look” he says,
“There it is! There’s our tree!” His joy is genuine.
So is my disgust.
“You brought me all the way out here just to look at some tree?
We have a yard full of trees at home!” I replied.
He looks at me with that sweet, crooked smile that I fell in love with
When we were only fifteen. I feel my anger melt away.
That’s not fair, damn him, I want to be mad for awhile longer.
But I can’t.
He jumps out of the cab and comes around to my door, opening it for me.
“Come on, sweetheart, I have a surprise for you!” Damn enthusiasm!
What surprise could possibly be worth the chiropractic bill I’m going to have?
After riding on this back-breaking road?
A picnic basket, hidden under the junk in the bed of the truck, reveals itself.
A bottle of wine, miraculously unharmed by the jolting ride,
Sandwiches, fresh fruit, and a little white box spill out from the red-checked tablecloth.
I don’t have time to wonder what’s in the box: he is pulling me toward the tree.
Now what? Haven’t I suffered enough?
He spreads the tablecloth in the cool shade of the big old tree.
I will not admit to him that it is really quite pretty out here.
And quiet. And peaceful. Or is it just because the truck is not running?
The babbling of the creek is pleasant music to my ears.
The sun shines beautifully on the wildflowers.
Oh come on, I don’t have time for this!
The white box again. Unless it’s a coupon for a housekeeping service,
I don’t need it. I need to go home and clean, and pay bills, and shop for groceries.
This is such a waste of time. A hummingbird hovers nearby.
There is nothing out here to interrupt my thoughts. It is too peaceful.
I thrive in chaos! I need stimulation!
Why is he pulling me to my feet? I walk with him to take a closer look at the tree.
He is scraping stuff off the trunk. Purposefully, lovingly uncovering some ancient marker.
“Look” he says. “It’s us: ‘Bobby loves Gina’”. Memories start to flood my consciousness.
This is the tree we stood under when he asked me to marry him.
True, we were only fifteen at the time but he promised that he would ask me again when we were older.
And he did. Four years later before he left for
I remember everything about that day and this tree.
How could I let such important memories get buried so deeply in trivial worries?
How could I forget what a good man he is—and always has been?
How could I be mad at my soul mate? My best friend?
I look up at him and share my smile with him. He’s seen me frown for too long.
The white box. What could it be? It’s not my birthday. It’s not our anniversary.
What is it? I hope it’s NOT a coupon for housekeeping! I hope it’s something that’s as special as he is.
He is talking a mile a minute now, telling me about all the time and energy he spent finding it.
Telling me so I will realize how important it was to him to get it just right.
And he did.
The white box holds an engagement ring, something I never had because we just couldn’t afford it.
Not just any ring either: my grandmother’s engagement ring.
Repaired, with the stone reset, and all the beautiful filigree they used to put on rings.
Special rings.
Engagement rings.
I look up at him again and kiss him.
Thank you for the ring, my darling.
Thank you for all the memories.
Thank you for helping me recognize what is important—and what isn’t.
The ride home is magical.
The old truck engine is purring; the windshield isn’t rattling, either.
The wind through the cab is more like a gentle spring breeze.
The smell of the clover is intoxicating.
We are both smiling.
And holding hands.
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