The Promise

He slowly opened one eye. He was still half asleep. It was cold, overcast and that time before sunup when it starts to hint at light. They were staying in the apartment with the tall antique windows. They had been on the island for a few days and had left the windows open the night before. The cold wind was blowing in and he was under the covers. He was warm. He drifted off for a moment. When he woke again, he could hear the voices and movements of the people on the street. He could hear the children as they hurried to the school at the end of the block.

Then it started. The images came slowly. They appeared. They were gone. At first this scared him. Was it his time? When you get old that’s always in the back of your mind. A palm tree, a young boy, a young girl, a beach, white sand, a sandwich, a plate of woven palm fronds, a guard gate, a P X, a high and tight haircut, a wooden television console, rabbit ears, Roy Rogers and a masked man. He squeezed his eyes. What was happening?

Rows of corn, a green tractor, a black bull, a yellow chicken, a pig pen, wild asparagus in a fence row, a large Victorian house, a red barn, a soybean field, weeds, a plastic communion cup, purple juice, a graduation, body bags, a slender youth, his father in a coffin, his mother with the look of those who can't remember. His heart started to race.

A keg, a bra on the floor, a rose garden, a roof, a trailer, a bottle of Everclear, a dance floor, leather bound book, a pixie cut, eyes the color of the water off Key West, a crowd, a wooden cigar box, a small wrinkled piece of paper. Stairs, Eden Alley, the sign above the door of the Shack, a bicycle, a tip tray, a cold raging ocean, a tall sand dune, an old butcher block, a chef's knife, a flaming pan with half a duck and cherries, skis, snow, a narrow mountain trail, a copper bar, the sign at the entrance to Sawmill Farm, a simple village church, a wine glass filled with ice cream and chocolate sauce, a player piano, a gold chain with a small gold bear, a worn baby's locket, a gold ring. He calmed and let the images flow.

A picture of a pear, a Gorman print, a framed photograph, the Ponte Vecchio, an antique mirror, The Rebel, an old quilt, bookcases of cookbooks, a Zero's grub steak and cheese, a silver hair brush from Tiffany's, a bundle of letters.

The images started to speed up. There were cars. He had owned all of them. There were houses. He had lived in all of them. There were restaurant stoves. He had cooked on all them. There were finished entrees waiting in the window for service. He had cooked all of them. There were perfectly garnished plates served in hundreds of restaurants. He had eaten them all. There were images of vineyards and wineries. He had been at all of them. There were rows of wine bottles and half filled wine glasses. He had drunk them all. There were tables of food, wine and friends. He had sat at all of them. There were copper pots and pans hanging from a rack. They all belonged to him. Uneasiness crept into his heart.

The faces started. There were friends from school, teachers, bullies, pretty girls. There were friends who had died, friends who still lived and friends who were no longer friends. There were women he had known, his mother, Gran, Abby, Ellen, Brenda, Maggie and Mary, the faces of his stepchildren, the faces of his grand babies. The images were flying by.

He closed his eyes. The images stopped. He looked at her head on the pillow. The dark hair had flecks of gray. Her eyes were closed. He knew they were the color of the water off Key West.  He had watched them sparkle a thousand times. The skin on her face was tan. It had wrinkles. His heart caught in his throat. She was beautiful. He smiled. Perhaps it wasn’t his time yet.

He rolled over. He looked at the old tile roof on the ancient church across the narrow street he heard its bells begin to clang. He wanted stay in the warm bed but he remembered his promise. He got up and quickly dressed.

He walked down the stairs and out into the street. As he walked he remembered how content he had been. She likes pain au chocolat with her morning coffee. It can’t be the one from the first boulangerie he came to or even the second. No. It must be from the third, the one at number 78. This baker used two pieces of Valrhona chocolate and Bordier butter. It was the best.

He entered the small shop and wished the owner a good morning. He bought two pain au chocolat and a baguette. He walked to the far end of the street and stopped at the bridge. He looked up at the magnificent old cathedral. He never tired of the overwhelming beauty of it.

On the way back, he took the street by the river. It was longer but he liked looking at the water. He thought he would get back in the warm bed. No, it wouldn’t be the same. It’s never the same and he had a few miles to go.