Jack and Lily

 

March 21, 2022

 

Greetings from the witness,

 Jack opened the front door and welcomed me in.  He wore a suit and tie, which is all I’ve ever seen him wear.  His clothes were from a generation before, but were good quality, and well pressed.  He was a slight man, made more so by the eight decades, but the suit gave him some size, and a formal dignity.

 We stepped into a generous foyer, and he said the proper things that a gracious host says, and called out “Lily, our guest is here.”  He walked ahead of me a few steps, and then turned and took the arm of a small, plump woman, coming down the hall.  “This is my bride, Lily.”

 There was something remarkable about this moment, a tiny glimpse into a marriage of more decades than I had been alive.  The two of them, both smiling, not only at me, but in delight at being together.

 Lily gushed, welcomed me to their home, her words lightly accented from another language, long left behind.  She wore a dress, a fashion bookend to her husband.  Her hair was parted sharply, dark brown with a henna tone, held in place by a small pin.

 She invited me to the kitchen where she had been cooking and had me sit at a small table.  She served us all coffee, strong and dark in delicate porcelain cups.  She offered me a plate of the dessert she had been making, something sweet and chewy, honey and dates and almonds. 

 In whatever time dissolved around that table, we sat sipping coffee and becoming friends. We talked about family, about our community, Jack seasoning the conversation with well used clips of wisdom for his younger admirer.  The kitchen was cozy, and even as we sat there in our Sunday Best, I felt relaxed and welcomed.

 Lily shooed us out of the kitchen while she tidied up, and Jack took me to the lower level, showed me his office, “Where I make my calls…and so on.”  It was a man’s warren, with a desk and the usual bit of clutter.  The walls were lined with awards and plaques and commendations, photos of him shaking hands with dignitaries.  We talked of his passions, his faith, a little of his history, which was a much more complicated tapestry than could be covered in one afternoon.

 We left his den and soon I was a little lost, making our way through the halls.  The house, which from the street was imposing, was larger than I thought.  We went back to the kitchen, where I thought I might say my goodbyes.  Jack stood next to his wife for a moment, his hand gently on her shoulder.  She turned to me.

 “Would you like to see the house?” Lily asked.  She was smiling, radiating the message.  “Of course,” I said.  “I would love to.” 

 We wound through the foyer again, made our way up the stairs and through hallways, past bedrooms and the ‘servant’s stairway’. “Of course, we never had servants.” Jack was quick to say.  I was dutifully impressed with the décor and the furniture, the rugs and art.  Lily was proud of their home, a small indulgence for the two of them, whose lives were themes of humility and service.

 We arrived back on the main floor and walked through a spacious living room, lined with ornate furniture, a formal room, with brocade, lace, and patterned pillows. They showed me things they had collected or been given, said the names of the people in the paintings and photographs.  We admired the things together, and the two of them shared pieces of their history. 

 After the conversation seemed to settle, I stepped back toward the foyer, took a breath to thank them for their hospitality.  I turned to face them, and Lily stepped up, holding her hands out.

She looked up at me, a little flushed, slightly breathless.  “Would you like to see the house?” she asked.

 I hesitated just a moment and turned to Jack.  There, in the eyes of one of the kindest people I’ve met, was a deeper tenderness, one born of a lifetime of love and devotion.  His face did not change, and he made no sign that his wife had said anything remarkable. 

 “Of course,” I said to Lily, “I would love to.”  I glanced at Jack for just a moment, and saw a faint smile, and nothing else. 

 We followed Lily back through their home, as she guided us through the story of their family.  This piece of furniture, this painting, a gift from a friend, a memento from a wonderful trip.  Here is the hallway with pictures of family, the elegant rugs, the neat bedrooms, the servant’s stairway.

 In time we were standing in the living room again, admiring the elaborate furniture, the art, the keepsakes.  I complimented Lily on her taste, and her rich hospitality.  She smiled, blushed beneath her heavy makeup.  Jack walked me to the foyer and shook my hand, looked me in the eyes and thanked me.  A moment later Lily was there with a plate of the sweet dessert to take with me.

 I turned to wave at them, framed in the front door, two people who allowed me a glimpse of the life they shared.  Behind them stretched myriad halls of experience, which showed in the way they held each other beneath the limestone and brick arch.

 There are many who knew Jack and Lily better than I did.  This vignette, thirty years ago, sees them after nearly sixty years of marriage, lives of challenge and victory and heartbreak and love, and love, and love.  They are both gone on to another place now, and the world spins on, changes, grows and groans without them.  But not without the mark they made here.

 The love they shared, what I saw in that tiny slice of time, was stronger than the frailties of living, stronger than the limits of a lifetime. I know, in my own heart, they loved each other forever, and forever and for whatever comes after. 

  

Hope this finds you believing,

 

David

 

 Copyright © 2022  David Smith