Rex sat by the box of clay in his Beginning Pottery class. It was Feb. 14th, Valentine’s day. Rex had not thought anything about it; he was thirteen years old and girls hadn’t crossed his mind. But now here he was, perplexed at what he found among the green clay and sculpting tools in his pottery supply box. It was a pink envelope with his name on it, “Rex Duncan”. Rex felt his heartbeat quicken and his face flashed hot with both denial and bewilderment. There must be some kind of mistake. Who would put this envelope in his box?
The bewildered boy sat down on a box and looked right and left with a slight tinge of paranoia enhancing his flushing countenance. With caution, Rex tore open the envelope and pulled out a card that read, “Be Mine Valentine.” Inside was a note.
Rex swallowed hard as he read, “Rex, I hope you have a fun Valentine’s day. I like the sculpture you did of your dog Sam. You are a great sculptor. Would you like to go to the ice skating rink with me this Saturday at 1:00. I have two free passes, and my mom can pick you up and drive us there. Sincerely Sarah Brownlee”.
Rex squinted down at the note and read it one more time, then, ever so slowly and with great caution, looked up, casting his eyes in the direction of Sarah Brownlee’s workbench as he felt his stomach lose itself noting her gaze in his direction with radiant expectancy.
Rex turned his head, looking dumbfounded into the twinkling green eyes and the beaming face of the pink-cheeked girl. Somehow, Rex never noticed how shiny her long black hair was until now. In fact, she was a little bit cute. Actually, he never thought about girls being cute, but she kinda was.
Rex swallowed hard again. His mouth felt dry.
“Well?” She asked. “Will you go?”
“Yeah! Sure. O.K.” Rex responded, then the dumbfounded expression left his face, and he laughed. Sara laughed too.
Rex quickly turned his attention back to his clay as he pounded it into the workbench with a new macho manner in his method.
It was a precious moment, one that had grown sweeter over the years. Forty-three to be exact.
As the morophine drip beeped, Sara, weary in soul and spirit, smiled lovingly at the frail body lying in the bed, then bent over the guardrail entwined with tubes sustaining life and kissed her husband gently on the forehead. As he gasped for air, one breath at a time, she tenderly put her hand onto his and softly whispered into his ear, “You know Rex, I really like the sculpture you did of your dog Sam. Wanta go skating?”
As the corners of his mouth turned up ever so slightly before his last breath, Rex Duncan took his sacred boyhood moment with him into eternity.
