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Once we are all full of egg-nog, Brother Spencer, Michael's father, reads to us from the Book of Luke. I have heard the story many times before and allow my mind drift away somewhere, back into the past when Michael and I were sitting in a restaurant over a plate of hot tortilla chips and a bowl of spinach and artichoke dip, and he let me hold his own CTR ring his mother had given him. "Many Latter-day Saints wear them as a reminder," he had said.
My exact words!
But it wasn't the only ring I recall from that night, but the fellowship of an eternal family celebrating the birth of the Savior.
Yes, this ring I will wear as a reminder also of one of the most wonderful nights of my life, for just being there and sharing Christmas was a gift in itself, ring or no ring. The memory of that night is a gift that can never be taken away.
Her voice faded out as the woman beside him put her hand on his and he didn't understand why until he noticed that he had been crying.
The service was over. He stood at the door and watched the rain come down in sheets against the glass. He stared at his reflection for quite some time, wondering if he could ever get over her. Standing there in the dim light of the foyer, he read her last entry, dated the day she had said good-bye. He began to read, dread filling him as he wondered what could have happened to make her leave him...
Dear Journal,
Michael and I are no longer, for I cannot have children, you see. I know he will make some woman a fine husband someday, and...
She had loved me all along! Oh, Laurel, why didn't you tell me? I would have understood, but you knew I would, and that's why you let me go! When he reaches the end of the entry, he stops and realizes that these memories they had shared, she had remembered them all differently. We cannot choose what we remember, but how we remember it, she had said once. He hadn't understood what she meant by this until now.
Her descriptions of all she heard and felt and tasted and touched painted paintings ten thousand times more lovely than anything she could have described from sight, for she was blind you see, since the day she was born, yet she had seen more beauty in life than he ever had.
It was she, his lovely mountain laurel, as he had called her many times, who had given him the second greatest gift of all. Her life. It was right here, etched on these thick, cream-colored pages.
Then, as if contesting his assessment of the value of her gift, a sheet of onionskin paper falls from the back of the book. It was dated the day before she died. Written on it in black cursive is a stanza of a poem. He reads, and knows there is a greater gift to be had in these words, for they set him free.
Peace I leave with you,
my peace I give unto you.
Let not your heart be troubled of relationships past,
for an even greater treasure thou now hast.
"Thank you, Laurel," he whispers, "for helping me see the treasure I have found in Meg."
He walks outside to his car as she walks up to him and kisses him on the cheek. She had been watching him the entire time, reading that book, her book. "Honey, are you ready to go home?" she asks, her hand on his shoulder.
He cannot not answer, for he is overcome by his love for this woman. He hadn't been able to control what had happened with Laurel, but he could control what happened with this woman. He could choose to pine for a girl who had gone the way of all the earth, or he could cleave unto his wife whom he had promised to love through the eternities.
And so he closes the book, the last entry dated January 28, 1981, the day they had broken up nearly twenty years ago.
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