Heart shaped box

I remember her making that gift – the one she holds out in presentation and that he accepts with a chubby grin. I remember her finding the red fabric, heart shaped box, that probably once held chocolates, and lining it with wax paper. The chocolaty goodness that had been cooking on the stove all afternoon was then poured in and leveled off and the works was spirited into the refrigerator where we couldn’t get at it so well. Our little arms were not yet strong enough to open the door or reach the top shelf.

Hours later the heart shaped box came out and the thick liquid had hardened into perfect fudge. She got out the frosting kit normally reserved for birthday cakes. With a pointed piece of wood she scratched out the words, “I love you” across the heart. Then, putting the writing tip onto the red frosting tube she scripted the words out properly. Changing tips she added a few rosettes. The wax paper was trimmed, the top was put on, and the works was presented to dad for Valentine’s Day. And that’s this photo. She holds out the opened heart box as she leans over his chair. The sideburns his barber insisted on cutting into his face are lifted with the grin of acceptance. The 3 elements, mom’s face, box of fudge, dad’s face, pose frontally for a shot one of my older sisters must have been trained to take.

It would take a novel and a half to map the faulty, subterranean lands beneath the surface of any relationship. Here, I need not bother. One sentence will do. I knew even then that this photo, this act of chocolate, was a lie.

They lied because the truth was beyond the scope of who they were both brought up to be. They lied because they had both said words investing themselves into a cultural fairy tale of love and marriage without realizing that in their hearts each held very different views of those two words. They lied because it’s easier to pretend and do strange things in chocolate than to admit that a dream had soured; that in fact the ideal held out to them as a possible state of wedded bliss was personally quite destructive. Dreams are best left as such if they prevent one from asking honestly each day what the relationship means. The truth is they didn’t have words for the truth. But it’s easy for me to criticize. I’m not 22. It’s not the early 60’s. The pressures to conform in my life are mere annoyances – like flies floating about a light. ZAP!

I remember Mom’s fudge. Now that lady knew how to cook. People rave about my cooking, now. I make soup. I make stews, I use garlic in intelligent ways, and I’ve been known to even torture chocolate into a mousse to gain crowd approval. I can look at a pile of ingredients and figure out something to do with it provided I have kosher salt and amchur powder (ahhhh! Secret ingredient!). But it’s all very random. Unlike mine, mom’s cooking always had a purpose. The cakes came from a box and the frosting from a tub but the writing on the top and the frosting flowers she made herself. There was a craft. She makes jam with the berries picked in the summer. She focuses yams and pineapples into her famous candied sweet potatoes. There was always some tradition or favorite dish to be upheld. There was a meal to be made that must be different than yesterday or embellish the pleasure of a summer evening. Me? Put a recipe in front of me and I become a cripple in the kitchen. I tried to make potato salad this afternoon. The result is a mix of roasted organic potatoes, crisp organic celery and home made aioli which, though very tasty, would curl the toenails of a potato salad purist. Next time I add bacon, too!!

They were already fighting about money. They had already realized the falsehood of their assumptions regarding how each would continue or support the other’s hobbies. They were tired too soon. But at that point they were still trying. She still thought he’d get a decent job and give up the old cars and marching band. He thought she’d play along with his whims without posing too much opposition. They don’t see the real storm on the horizon.

I still get the horror stories from mom, now that she is the survivor and able to get in the last word. Her “oppressor” is beyond the Lethe. His half of the picture, what it was he received in that heart, has faded to nothing. And nothing is where the works will stay. I can’t waste any more energy contemplating the dynamics of what went wrong for those two. Despite the desire I will never manage the perfect act of mending what they spent 43 yeas tearing apart. I didn’t fall for the dream. I don’t need to contemplate destruction. Not today. My empathy is best spent on the living.