Darling

“You are my sunshine, my only sunshine,
you make me happy all of the day,”

“Isn’t it 'you make me happy, when skies are gray’?”

“Eh? Really? But…I want you to make me happy all the time, not just when ‘skies are gray’.”

“Okay, whatever you say, darling.”

“I love when you call me darling.”

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There’s a notebook on the windowsill in the kitchen that my grandmother made many years ago; when my grandfather was sitting by her side every second of the day. The notebook is small and navy blue with pages barely the size of my tiny hands. When I was younger, I remember how my grandmother would take the notebook down from the window sill and away from the warm rays of sunshine. She’d set me down onto her fragile lap while she sat in the old, wooden rocking chair with the miniscule heart carved into its back beside the oven. Usually while we were baking something. I was always afraid, even at such a tender age, that her legs would snap under me and she’d leave just the way Grandpa did, but we didn’t stay this way too long; she always cried before she got to the last page.

There weren’t any personal thoughts or ideas in the notebook. No words or forgotten memories, just page after page of petite, pressed flowers. The ones towards the front seemed to be the most beautiful, the oldest, and the ones towards the back smelled the sweetest and freshest. I liked the ones in the front best. They didn’t smell like flowers, more like paper. But, oh, they were so fragile with their shriveled petals rustling with every movement and their leaves tearing at the least of all shifts. You had to be careful with them the most. You had to be tender and loving and treat them like small pieces of broken glass. Make one wrong move and you’d cut yourself easily.

The day my grandmother died, she wanted to show me the flowers one last time. I hadn’t known she was so eager to be with Grandpa again at first, until she turned the very last page and smiled. She didn’t cry, just carefully lifted the flower with her shaking, paper hands and asked, “Darling, do you know what this is?” I shook my head. I was still young and unknowledgeable. “It’s a lilac,” she whispered softly. And with that, she pressed my forehead against her's and said, “Darling, I love you.” Grandma didn’t call anyone else darling but me and Grandpa. Dear, dear, Grandpa who loved lilacs almost as much as he loved Grandma.

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Johnny loves lilacs, almost as much as he loves to walk around the whole neighborhood singing ’You Are My Sunshine’ by Johnny Cash, his namesake, at the top of his lungs. But not even close enough to how much he loves me. He loves me. How amazing.

“Darling,” he calls out gently. Johnny doesn’t call anyone else darling, just me.

“I love when you call me darling,” I sigh as he sets himself down beside me.

“Darling,” he purrs again, just for my pleasure. I smile, because I love it.

We are young and naïve, and what makes it better is that we know it will last. Forever and ever, like Grandma and Grandpa. I know that it seems like this is just another year or two fling that all young people go through, and we will cry and end it all, but sometimes you just know. And it’s not the kind of knowing where you just wish it so badly that you finally convince yourself that the lie must be true. This is the kind of knowing where you look at a big sheet of white paper and say, “Yes.” There are no splotches or distractions on the sheet. No lines, dots, or pictures. Everything is simply white and pure and clear. Everything makes sense.

Johnny doesn’t smile if he doesn’t want to. You can’t expect him to smile back at you politely if you smile at him first. It won’t even be a tight do-I-know-you? smile. He will nod and turn away, acknowledging your presence and assuring you that you are there. Johnny says that if he smiles back, he’d be lying, because he doesn’t care who that person is. He might not even be in a happy mood, so why should he lie to others and, even worse, to himself? But Johnny always smiles when I’m there. No matter what his mood or whatever’s ailing him, he will always smile and get a soft, angelic look in his eyes and say, “Darling.” I can trust him to smile and say that.

“Do you want to take a walk?” he asks me. I turn my sight away from the lonely, swinging bough of the cherry tree and to his soft, almost lavender eyes.

“Yes.”

He takes my hand and bows lowly. He stands up, a bright grin adorning his handsome face, and says, “My darling,” as he pulls me to my feet. We walk step by step, hand in hand. The wind rustles gently through my long hair and pulls at the blossoms of the cherry trees looming above us.

We don’t talk much. We don’t need to. The birds say it all. They twitter and sing love songs to each other. Humming and whistling tunes as sweet as the day I first met Johnny. Johnny with his wayward hair and thin, scabbed body, rolling through the grass with a goofy smile on his face. Johnny who said to me, “Hello, darling.” Seven year old Johnny was not my Prince Charming. Seven year old Johnny was the sweet, little mouse in Cinderella and the quiet guard that stood at Sleeping Beauty’s door, waiting patiently for her happiness to come. Seven year old Johnny was my first lullaby lilting gently into my bed at night and the snow white teddy bear I always held in my arms. Seven year old Johnny was my grandparent’s notebook; precious and beautiful.

“Darling,” Johnny whispers. I look up at him. He brings my hand up to his mouth and kisses it tenderly. “Sadly, I have to leave you for just a few seconds. Can you handle that?”

I blink. “Of course.” Johnny is not a dog. Johnny is a strong young man brimming with the liveliness of youth.

He smiles. “Thank you,” and slips a small piece of paper into my hands. With a quick, loving kiss on the cheek, he turns around and runs. I want to yell at him to come back, to ask him why he is leaving. But I trust him. So, I look down at the paper with the word ‘Darling’ written in his elegant hand-writing, a small heart drawn at the end, and unfold it slowly. A flower lies inside. No personal thoughts or ideas. No words or sweet memories. Just a purple lilac, fresh and pressed between the folds.

I frown. I don’t know what it means. I want to run after him, but I can’t because I promised him I’d stay. And I trust him. I trust him too much to betray him. But, oh, how he loves lilacs. Just not as much as he loves me. He loves me. How amazing.