Tea and toast

The teacup sat, with steam still rising from it. The tea bag, with its string tightly wound around the spoon, was placed carefully on the saucer that held the cup. Whole-wheat toast, still warm to the touch, with butter lightly spread and melting, lay on a paper towel next to the saucer that held the cup. Everything appeared just as it should.



Sara prepared the same breakfast every morning for the last nine years. She said since Janice had left home there was no need to prepare fancy breakfasts; tea and toast was a perfect start to her empty-nest days. Coffee, with cream and sugar, was all that Harold ever had before he kissed her and the kids good bye and left for work. That, he could prepare for himself. So, every day, she rose quietly from her bed, made herself tea and toast, and enjoyed the quiet moments that the morning offered.



Harold awoke that morning, as he did every morning, at eight fifteen sharp. The coffee maker's timer was set for eight ten, allowing him time to walk to the kitchen, grab the cream and sugar just as the final drips of hot water fell into the pot.



He did not speak to Sara at first. He had his own routine: cup from the cupboard, spoon full of sugar, cream in the bottom of the cup, slowly pour in the French roast he had savored for as long as he could remember. Then he'd walk to the back window to stare at the far away hills.



Harold found his routine gave Sara a chance to surface from the depths of her solitude so that his appearance would cause her no discomfort. It was a well-choreographed dance, a Viennese waltz of care and compassion for a partner he knew so well.



Sara, for her part, would begin the ascent from her reverie at the coffee maker's first sounds, leaving behind the memories of her growing, the days of children's laughter and tears, the fun filled and frightening days that had been her life, so well lived.



Her days were nearly over, and she longed to live them again. Oh, she loved her mornings with Harold. As a matter of fact, she had loved Harold from the first days of summer 1947 when she watched as he crashed into the outfield fence trying to catch a ball off of the bat of his chief rival, John Baxter. John later died in Vietnam taking part of Harold with him. Sara thought it odd that John's death had affected Harold, but she loved him more because of the compassion he displayed.



Yes, she had loved Harold for near forever, and could not imagine a life better than the one they had lived. So, as the coffee maker came to life, Sara prepared herself for Harold's arrival at her side. As he entered the room she would look up, as she always had, and say, "good morning, handsome." He would bend over, kiss her cheek and ask, "So, how's the most beautiful girl in the world?"



Harold finished his morning ritual and looked at the mountains in the distance. The fresh snow that covered them gave hint to the storm that was coming. The clouds had settled over his home, and the first flakes danced in the air before finally falling to the earth, melting as they hit. Soon the snow would fall with a ferocity that would allow the earth's warmth to be overcome and a white blanket would replace concrete and grass.



Harold took a sip of his morning coffee and thought about the walk he and Sara would take after tea and coffee. They would bundle up in their heavy coats. The pink one that Sara loved so much would be adorned by a bright purple scarf draped around her neck. Sara always said that wearing purple was one of the gifts of growing old. Harold thought she looked remarkably regal in her coat and scarf.



They would walk arm in arm along the river. They would watch children frolic in the snow, freed from their classrooms by antsy administrators who feared fractured arms and broken busses slipping from the streets if they waited for the storm's full fury. Harold and Sara would walk unencumbered by the concerns of young parents who had to adjust their schedules to adapt to the changing of the children's routine. Harold and Sara could just enjoy their mid morning walk until the chilly air pushed them to the Pine Tavern for a hot toddy before heading back to cozy confines of their empty nest.



Harold thought back to a spring day, not long ago, when he and Sara had ventured out amidst the threat of thunderstorms and spring rains. A photographer captured the exact moment he opened his umbrella as Sara looked up adoringly and smiled at his thoughtfulness. To a casual viewer the photo showed a couple so much in love that nothing else in the world mattered. Sara thought she looked like a schoolgirl with a crush. Harold loved the photo so much, he got a copy, had it enlarged, and it now held a prominent spot on the mantle, along with other mementos of their long, loving lives.



There were pictures of their children from infant to toddlers to teens. There were prom nights, graduations, first cars, and waves good-bye, as one by one they left home. However, not a single photo was as precious to Harold as the one of the woman he loved; so radiant by the river in the rain.



Harold thought how fitting it would be if the same intrepid photographer captured another photo that he could secret into the house. Perhaps he could get the photographer to shoot a complete series; Winter, Spring, Summer, and Fall. Then, when their health no longer allowed them to stroll the rivers edge, they could walk their memories' path with visual aids to guide them.



That's it, Harold thought! Today, while Sara readies herself for our snowy sojourn, I will call the paper, remind them of the photo, and commission the full set. I will have to keep it a secret from Sara until the full set is complete. Harold had never kept secrets from Sara but for gifts, and the like, he would wait for the set to be complete and give it to her as a gift. Surely she would forgive his secret keeping for that. A Christmas gift or a birthday present perhaps? No, an anniversary surprise! What would be more appropriate than that?



Anxious to put his plan in motion, Harold took another sip of coffee, stopped by the pot for a refill, and stepped into the breakfast nook to share his morning, if not his plans, with Sara. That's odd he thought. There was the tea and toast, the tea bag wrapped in the spoon, steam still rising from the cup, the toast warm with melting butter. However, Sara was nowhere to be seen. Perhaps the paper- that was it - she had stepped out to get the paper before the snow covered it and made it wet and impossible to read. That was Sara; always thoughtful.



Harold sat in the silence and waited for the door to open. It would only be a matter of seconds before Sara stepped through the door shaking snow from her head. She would smile and say, "Here's your paper, handsome." When the door did not immediately open, Harold felt his pulse quicken. Walking to the door, he opened it, only to find the paper lying on the drive. He walked over quickly and picked it up. Closing the door, he expected to see Sara enter the breakfast nook from the bathroom. That was probably it - an early morning nature call.



However, she wasn't there. The house had become eerily silent, or maybe it had been silent all morning and he hadn't noticed. But the tea and the toast... she had been there, but where had she gone? With a rising sense of dread, Harold dialed Sara's cell phone and heard the soft sounds of Fur Elise, her ring tone, from somewhere down the hall. Wherever she was, she had not taken her phone.



Harold walked quickly to the garage. Maybe that was it. She saw the snow begin to fall, and rushed out to get some supplies they might need if the weather turned bad. Maybe she would get an old Bogart movie, to watch by the fire, as the snow piled up. Walking quickly now, Harold, opened the door that led to the Garage. The car sat right where he had last parked it. Urgency quickly turned to fear. Be calm, Harold, he chided himself.



She walked - it wasn't such a long walk after all. She was just letting her tea cool, a quick walk to the market and back. That had to be it. Ok, he thought. I will give her a couple of minutes, enough time to make the round trip. I bet she walks right through that door, burdened with blueberry muffins or bagels. She will have a good laugh, kiss me on the cheek, and tell me how sweet I was to worry.



Harold sat back at the table, opened his paper, and tried to concentrate on the stories written there. He could not concentrate; he could barely see the print. The hall closet door was slightly ajar. It seemed to beckon, to taunt, "look in here, if you dare. Is her coat here? Would she have gone out with out a coat? I dare you to look!"



Harold's heart was beating loudly in his chest. He was reminded of the Poe tale of The Tell-Tale Heart. The sound was overwhelming! He could see how a man might confess to a crime, thinking the heartbeat came from outside himself. The sound was all he could hear. "Just walk over to the closet," he told himself. "You'll see. Her coat will be gone and she will be home before you know it."



Trying hard to quell his fear, Harold slowly rose from the table and walked the ten feet to the closet door. Holding his breath, he reached for the handle and eased open the door. Staring into the shadows, his heart stopped its torturous beat. It was there! The coat was there and the purple scarf hung on the same hanger. Damn it, the coat was there!



Harold's world went dark. He grabbed the door jam to steady himself. "Hold on Harold, hold on," he told himself. "A new coat - that must be it." She had gotten a new coat and he hadn't noticed. He remembered all the times she changed her hairstyle and bought new clothes which he hadn't noticed. She could have gotten a new coat and could be waiting for you to say, "Hey, that is a nice new coat." She'd get the pouty look and tell you it was about time you'd noticed, she'd had the "new" coat for months.



Harold decided he was acting like an old fool. She had made tea and toast. Surely she couldn't have gone far and would shortly return. There was nothing to worry about. So, Harold sat. He waited. He waited as the toast grew cold and the once warm, melting butter congealed on the stiffening toast. He sat as the steam from the teacup vanished and the once hot tea turned tepid. He sat and watched the snow subdue the grass, the sidewalks, and streets.



He sat and waited, his unread paper at his side, his coffee cold in its cup, every breath held for just an instant, in hopes that in the silence that followed, he would hear Sara's footsteps on the walk. In that extraordinary silence, however, that only a heavy snowfall could create, Harold heard nothing. He came to it slowly. He finally had to admit that Sara was missing.



How long should he wait to contact someone? Whom should he call? The police? The Hospital? Walk-in clinics? His children? "Ten more minutes," Harold told himself. That was as long as he would wait. Harold walked back to the table where the tea and toast sat. Picking up the paper towel where the toast laid, he walked back to the kitchen, opened the trashcan, and let the toast and towel fall in with the rest of the week's refuse. Returning to the table, Harold retrieved the tea and slowly poured it down the drain. He rinsed the cup and saucer and placed them in the dishwasher next to ones used earlier in the week.



Walking to the family room, Harold looked up at the mantel that held the memories of his life. Picking out his favorite, he held it close and sat. "There you are, my love. I miss you everyday. Once in awhile, just for a while, in the morning, I pretend you are still with me. Do not be mad, Sara. I just pretend. I know you have been gone a long time. However, for those few moments while the tea is cooling and the coffee is brewing, I have you back. I miss our walks, the quiet times we shared. It is Valentine's Day today, and I just wanted to spend a few minutes with you."



Holding the portrait close, Harold walked back to the mantel and put the picture in place next to Fall and Spring. Sara smiled back at him in her pink coat and purple scarf as snowflakes turned her grey hair to white.