Two Lips

Subject: Thank you!

Miranda -

Thank you for the Valentine's Day card. You're such a good daughter! I hope you and Brad have a lovely Valentine's Day in Paris. You married a good man.

Your dad and I will spend the day together, quietly, as we always do. Even after 46 years of marriage, I'd rather spend Valentine's day with him than any other man on earth. Have fun sweetie, in the most romantic city in the world!

Love - Mom

Clare hit the 'Send' button and shut down her computer. She rose from her desk and crossed the room to the fireplace. Miranda's card, covered in pink flocking and trimmed with lace, sat on the mantel. Clare ran her thumb over the fuzzy front and took a moment to appreciate the artistry of it. In the center of it, showcased in a white heart, was a bright pink lipstick-style imprint of a pair of lips.

Clare smiled. Miranda always sent just the right card.

She put it back on the mantel, next to the crystal vase that would soon hold a dozen pink and white tulips. Her husband always made sure she had her favorite flowers for Valentine's Day. She had explained it to him years ago.

"Tulips, Harry. Get it? Tulips, two lips? They're the most romantic flower. You can't even say the word "tulips" without your lips forming a kiss." She had happily demonstrated just what she meant, pressing her own two lips against his, over and over. For 46 years, she'd kept right on demonstrating.

"Besides, Harry, tulips represent hope. There they are, buried in the ground, all through the long, cold days. Then right on time, right when you've given up all hope of ever seeing spring, they surprise you. All it takes is a little bit of warmth to make the tulips jump right up."

Clare grinned at the memory of Harry's demonstration of how a little warmth and two lips could lead to things jumping up as well.

She headed to the kitchen to prepare the dinner she'd planned. While she worked, she thought of her grown daughter, vacationing in Paris. Harry always liked that old Humphrey Bogart movie, with that line about "we'll always have Paris." Clare hummed while she assembled the makings of a picnic supper.

"La da di da da da. La da di da da da." What were the words? Oh yes, something about time going by. She shook her head, and tucked the final items into the basket. Yes, time sure had a way of going by, and, usually, too fast.

It was probably a bit cold for a picnic, but it would be romantic. In the early days of their marriage, when they'd been young, and poor, and so in love, they had often made a romantic date out of a picnic in the park, pretending it was one of the fancy restaurants they couldn't afford. There were plenty of restaurant meals later on, when they'd found their footing, and Harry advanced at his job, but they'd still always made time to have a picnic now and then. They would lie on the red and white quilt, appliquéd with tulips, and kiss like teenagers.

"Two lips on the tulips," Harry would say, and make her laugh.

Clare bundled into her coat, grabbed the basket, and hurried out. Sunset would be such a romantic time for a picnic. When she arrived, she spread out the quilt and set out the containers of Harry's favorite foods. Steam from the piping hot chicken rose in the cool evening air. The fragrance from the cherry pie, fresh from the oven, wafted up to join the steam.

Clare looked up and smiled. There he was, her dear husband. He was still as handsome to her as the day she first saw him leaning against the lockers in junior high school, all rangy, and tough, and tousle-haired. She stretched out her hand and touched the beloved face. Yes, he was more weathered now, and grayer, but that dear smile was still just for her.

Harry always was the quiet one. Clare never minded. She told him about her day, and the card from Miranda.

"Paris, Harry. Just like that old movie. Miranda and Brad will be able to say they'll always have Paris." She laughed, and sang him that old song.

Harry never stopped smiling at her.

The sun had nearly set, and the air was colder. At last, Clare sighed and gathered up the remains of the picnic. She folded the old quilt over her arm and knelt in front of the gray granite headstone. She traced her fingers over the etching of Harry's laughing face, and over the dates carved beneath his name.

Just one year ago today, she thought. The space on the left of the stone was still smooth, but would not be for much longer. Her face would be there soon. She'd tell Miranda about the test results when she got back from Paris. No use spoiling her daughter's trip.

There was no point being sad. When the time came, Harry would be there to meet her, she was sure, bearing a dozen tulips. And she would happily greet him, with her own two lips.

She turned to leave, but out of the corner of her eye, caught a glimmer of something behind the headstone, lit by the rising moon.

Tulips.

A dozen of them, pink and white, springing up from the cold earth. How like Harry, to hide his gift to her behind his back. Clare grinned, then plucked each one. He hadn't forgotten. She bent once more, and pressed her own gift of two lips to the carved image.

"Thank you Harry. And Happy Valentine's Day, my love."

With that, she turned towards home, humming that old romantic song. Time did go by, but sometimes, not fast enough.