The Gift
by Jimmy Tom
  Article # 426 Article Type: Fiction

It was the greatest love of loves. It was the kind of love that stopped time, gave color to the grayness of life, the kind that books were written about. It was the kind of love that occurs once in a lifetime, the elusive kind that some may never experience, or that some may wait a lifetime for. It was a boundless, ageless love. It was also an impossible love. It had only been a couple of months, but the old woman and the young man had become very good friends. For some time, the young man had gone to the nursing home to visit his grandpa several times a week. The young man entered into the old woman's life one fateful evening, after Grandpa had gone to bed at his usual early hour.

Earlier that evening, the old woman had refused the help of the orderlies and was determined to climb into bed herself. The young man saw her grappling the bed rails from her wheelchair as he passed her room. He tentatively entered.

"Here, let me help you, ma'am," the young man said to her.

She started, with her back to the doorway she had not realized that someone had entered. He approached her, putting a reassuring hand on her arm. She turned to face him, angry and ready to shove the intruder away. She saw him and hesitated, having expected an orderly dressed in whites and not a young man dressed in t-shirt and jeans. In that moment of hesitation, he easily picked her up and gently placed her into bed. He drew the covers over her

"Thank you," she said to him, losing all evidence of the irritation she felt a moment ago.

"No trouble." he answered warmly. He then turned and quietly walked out of her room. She watched as he closed the door behind him. Her gaze lingered on the door for a moment. Then, shaking her head, she smiled, closed her eyes and slept.

A few days later, the old woman encountered the young man in the hallway.
"Well, hullo, stranger!" she said to him.

"Hi there!" he answered her, smiling. "How are you?"

They exchanged some small talk, the old woman deciding that she liked this young man. In the animated way that he spoke to her, she sensed that the feeling was mutual. "What's your name, by the way?" she asked, suddenly realizing that "stranger" was not a suitable name for a new friend. He told her. She told him hers. From that moment on, the young man made a point to visit her the next time he was in visiting with Grandpa.

"Tell me your story," he said to her after several visits. "and maybe I'll tell you mine." he added with a smile. This delighted the old woman, that a young person would be so interested in her stories. That he would be interested in her. She did not miss how attentive he was during her storytelling.

And so she told him her story. She told him of where she was born, where she grew up, about friends long since passed on. She also told him of the young beau who was her first love. Of how she met him on a playground as a little girl, back when time moved much more slowly. She told of how they grew up in the same neighborhood, and how they had attended grade school and high school together, and how they had attended their senior prom together.

"And where is he today?" he asked her, curiously.

"Well, he was stationed overseas during the war. He died untimely."

"I see," he said sadly.

She reached her hand out to him, stroking his cheek comfortingly. "It's quite alright. It was a long time ago, and I've long since gotten over it." He looked up at her, his gaze piercing. For the first time, he noticed her beauty. In spite of the lines on her face, the grayness of her hair, she was a remarkably attractive woman. She must have been incredibly beautiful in her heyday, her present self still reflecting much of the beauty of a younger woman. Indeed, he thought to himself, women half her age would be terribly envious of her beauty.

She returned his look. She was taken aback by the similarities between this young man and her beau - the same expressive eyes, the same warm friendly soul.and yet, there were stark differences. Her beau's light coloured hair to this young man's dark, her beau's grey eyes to this young man's brown. Her beau had very innocent eyes, whereas this young man's eyes belied his youthful appearance. She stared into those eyes.

After a few moments, they both looked away, shaken as though roused from some reverie. Unbeknownst to the other, their hearts were pumping rapidly, the tingle of emotion making it a bit harder to breathe. They each silently acknowledged that there was the spark of mutual attraction. Both speechless for a moment, she finally cleared her throat and mustered up the ability to speak. "Okay, your turn. What's your story?"

He told her of where he was born, where he grew up, and his own first love. He told her of how his first love was someone with whom he had really connected, someone who had much inner as well as outer beauty. He told her of how the young woman and her family had moved away to another continent, forever separating them and leaving no hope for courting. He told her of the ballroom dance lessons that he had taken with that first love, and how he had missed dancing with her.

"Really?" she said, smiling broadly, "that's wonderful! We used to ballroom dance too. I wish I still could, but" she gestured to her wheelchair, "ever since the accident, I haven't been able to. I miss it too." She told him about the riding accident that robbed her of the use of her legs. He listened to her, gravely. Then, nodding as though he'd reached a decision, he rose and reached a hand to her.

"Ah, but we still can, my darling," he said to her. He took her hand with a florid bow. "We still can."

Taking her hands, he danced a waltz with her, moving her such that her wheelchair gracefully rolled along with her motions. They danced to music only they could hear. They grinned broadly, thoroughly enjoying themselves. They gazed deeply into each others' eyes.

So lost were they in each other that they did not notice the room blur into nothingness. Nor did they notice the old woman rising up off her wheelchair, to join the young man in dance on her own legs. They did not notice the full orchestra that had picked up the melody of their music. Likewise, they did not notice that they themselves were transformed into two people of indeterminate age, the old woman becoming young again, the young man becoming mature. Their dance was graceful. They were beautiful. The dance ended, the music fading as the room slowly rematerialized. The man gently helped the woman back into her wheelchair, even as they both once again became young man and old woman.

Neither was willing to utter a word, for fear that the magic - of what they had just experienced, and what they now felt for one another - were to become lost and forgotten. The young man simply leaned forward, taking the old woman's hand in his, and planted a light kiss on that hand. During that brief moment of contact, the young man kissed a soft supple hand; the old woman felt the lips of an older gentleman. The young man broke the kiss and departed.

They remained very close from then on, becoming very good friends. They both agreed that their friendship was paramount to anything else they might share. The old woman was fascinated by the young man who was nearly a third her age, but who could so easily stir up feelings long forgotten. That surprised her. When they interacted, when they played, when they laughed, they were ageless. The man spent twice as long in the nursing home, rationing his visitation time between her and his grandfather. He felt a little guilty about wanting to always be with the woman.

During their regular chitchats, they reminisced about experiences, distant memories and hobbies.

"You also use fountain pens, I see" she remarked one day, noting his ever-present fountain pen and journal.

"Yes. I collect them actually."

"Oh, that's wonderful!" she said, delighted. "Let me tell you about my young beau, way back when." And so she told him about the first gift - a fountain pen - that she had wanted to give to her beau on his return from the war.

"You never got a chance to give it to him?" he asked, eyes wide.

"No, I'm afraid not," she replied sadly. "I had just received it specially-ordered, and had it in my hand ready to go to the docks to greet him. Before I had the chance to, a couple of officers greeted me at my front door to tell me that he was not returning. He did not even have a chance to say goodbye. He used to write me often, but I suppose he wouldn't have known that it was his time to depart."

"Ah, I see," he said with a heavy heart. A tear trickled down his cheek. He turned away from the woman slightly, wiping the tear before she could notice.

"I just wish I could find that pen!" she said, exasperated. "I lost it about twenty years ago, and I haven't seen its like since. I used to write my letters with it."

"Oh? Describe it to me, maybe I can help," the young man suggested, a spark of hope in his eyes.

The woman jogged her memory for a moment, and then proceeded to describe the pen. She described the shape of the pen, the color of the cap and barrel, the metal trim, the nib and the way the pen filled. She described how it wrote, the nib being very soft and expressive. She then described how much effort she had put into choosing that particular pen for her beau.

"It was the perfect pen. I hunted high and low for it. It was frustrating.sometimes I would find a pen that had a perfect 'this', and yet could use a better 'that'. There were very few wholly perfect pens at the time. The choices were abundant. It was frustrating, and yet was one of the most enjoyable things I have ever done!" the old woman proclaimed.

The young man grinned. "So, you shopped at the Little Pen Shop for Lovers, huh?"

The old woman regarded him for a moment and giggled. "Is there such a place?"

"There could be," the young man replied, his gaze softening.

The old woman smiled a silent acknowledgement, and blushed. She fully understood the implication of his words. She yearned to be with him in that shop.

She cleared her throat. "So, um, is it a pen that you're familiar with?" she asked him in an effort to regain composure.

The young man nodded. "Yes, I think I have a vague idea of which pen you are describing."

The old woman's expression brightened. "Ah, good! I wonder if another one can be found." She looked at him. "Do you think they would be easy to find?" she ask excitedly.

The young man was lost in thought. "It's not one that I have in my collection," he answered absently, "but I'm sure there must be one somewhere out there. I mean, gosh, there are so many vintage pens out 'in the wild'."

The old woman leaned back in her wheelchair, regarding the young man fondly. It was then that the nurse had walked in, announcing that visiting hours were over.

That night, the young man decided that he would seek out the pen that the old woman had lost - or one just like it - and present it to her as a special gift. The woman had become very dear to him and the wayward pen and its import was not lost on him. It was a gift of love, the gift she would have given to her beau. He would give her such a gift.

He looked through various websites, vintagepens.com, Penhero, and PenLovers, to make sure that the pen he had in mind matched the old woman's description. He looked through the pen reviews on the Pentrace site and his Stylophiles archive CDs. He cross-referenced various books in his library, Schneider & Fischler, Steinberg, Erano and Lambrou.

He then scoured various auction sites, eBay and Penbid. Finding a few hits, but not being sure of their quality, he decided to seek help from his pen friends.

"My fellow Zossers," he typed, "I am looking for the following, for a special friend." The young man typed in the description of the pen, and what he thought was the make and model. He asked about its availability, color variations, nib choices and cost. The latter was not really a consideration - he would have paid a king's ransom for the pen, however his resources were not unlimited. He repeated the post on Pentrace, where he also hung out when he wasn't reading Zoss posts.

The replies came pouring in, much to the young man's surprise. His Zoss folder, where he filtered Zoss List mail, filled with various suggestions and words of encouragement. The Pentrace threads of replies were virtually endless. He leaned back in his computer chair and reflected in the glow of his monitor. 'Wow,' he thought to himself, 'the Little Pen Shop for Lovers really does exist. And it's right here online.' He stretched his arms out in benediction, encompassing his computer workstation setup. He felt a surge of pride of being part of a community of such caring and conscientious people.

The young man continued his visits with the old woman, keeping his pen hunt a secret. It would be a special surprise for her. The months passed, the visits continued, the love blossomed and the hunt ensued. During their many hours of sharing, the young man gently held the old woman's hand in his. They continued sharing stories, dreams of the past and dreams for the future. They gazed at countless sunsets, the rays of the waning sun bestowing their blessing upon the couple. They still danced the dance on occasion, each time being transformed into lovers of indeterminate age.

"I love you," he said to her after a dance, one evening.

"And I love you" she answered back. She smiled and shrugged. "I try to steer away from saying 'I love you, too', since 'too' makes it seem more like a response than an expression."

He looked at her with warm eyes. "I know. I understand. But it's okay if you do say 'too' now and then. I just like hearing the first three words preceding it." They smiled, taking one another in an embrace, holding each other quietly for a long time. The nurse, in her usual manner, entered the room to announce the end of visiting hours. On seeing the couple, she stopped, considered for a moment, and then quietly backed out the door, gently closing it behind her.

One day, the young man received a message. "I think I've located the pen you are looking for. Give me a shout. Signed, pen friend." The young man was elated. Months of searching were nearing an end, and he could now fulfill the important act of bestowing the very special gift to his beloved. He sat back in his computer chair, laughing in delight even as the tears flowed freely.

"What are you smiling about?" she asked him, the following evening. "Oh, just happy to be with you, my dear," he answered. He leaned forward and hugged the woman. He was not about to ruin the surprise that he had worked so hard on for the last several months.

The woman held him close. She leaned back and eyed him suspiciously. "You look like the cat that ate the canary!" she accused, teasingly.

The man returned an expression of mock disbelief. "My dearest," he said expansively, "how could you ever say such a thing? Surely you don't doubt how happy you make this poor heart?"

The woman's eyes softened. "I have no doubts of that, my beloved. And I hope you realize how happy you make me."

The man knelt beside her, his expression serious. "I do. Sometimes it amazes me still. I am so happy that I've found you."

"And I, you, my darling," she said. Again, they embraced, holding each other close.

The pen arrived several days later. He inspected it. It required some restoration, however, the young man was not without talent in the area of pen repair. He scanned his bookcase, and retrieved his trusty reference manual, the cerlox-bound book with the light-blue cover. The young man commenced his labor of love. He worked through the evening and into the night, finally completing his work in the early hours of the morning. With a full heart, he wrapped the pen, and headed out to the nursing home.

The morning air was fresh, slightly damp from the moisture of the early morning dew. The sun was beaming down, casting its warmth on his face. The birds were chirping. The young man never before realized how beautiful mornings could be. He smiled at the world.

He arrived at the nursing home, just at the start of morning visiting hours. The building was quiet, peaceful this early in the morning. He strode through the hallways, resisting the urge to break out in song. He made his way to the old woman's room. He stopped in his tracks.

The old woman's bed was empty. He ran out of the room and looked around, the areas of the nursing home that he knew she would normally be. She was not there. A coldness gripped the young man's heart as he made his way back to the old woman's room. He fell onto his knees. Sobs wracked through his body, the tears streaming down his face. He raised his head heavenward and cried silently. The light in the young man's heart was quickly dimming.

After what seemed an eternity, the man got up and composed himself. He looked around the room, the familiar sight of the woman's belongings sending pangs of grief though him. He thought about the last time he had seen the woman, just the day before, and how happy they both felt. The man smiled sadly.

He glanced down at the pen in his hand, the gift that he never got a chance to give to her. With a sigh, the young man opened the old woman's nightstand drawer to place the pen among her belongings. He immediately noticed a folded piece of paper in the drawer with his name handwritten on it. Lifting the note, he saw the old woman's distinctive hand, the script flowing across the page. He took a deep breath, and started to read.

"My beloved, I am taking this chance to say goodbye. I will wait for you."

The end.

© 2004 Jimmy Tom

 

 Back to List | First | Previous | Next | Last