A Hundred
by Ada Pelonia
My husband went out today. It’s our 50th anniversary and I have memorized what he’d do for the rest of the day. He’d buy me three pieces of fully bloomed roses, just like how I’ve always wanted it. We always kept it in our own style where we would do the things we have always done since we got married so neither of us would forget our first few years as husband and wife.
Once he reached the CD store downtown, that one store that I knew would never close even if the current generation is different unlike the years before; the time when children could go haywire if they didn’t get their favorite animation movie on the roll. He’d borrow the film “Never Say Goodbye” that we had always loved to watch since it was first shown in theaters in 1956. We loved the part where Dr. Parker ran to his former wife whom he’d presumed dead as if that was what pushed the film in motion.
A few streets away from that store, he’d pick fresh oranges from our neighbor’s backyard. Our neighbor would tell my husband that we were the sweetest couple he has ever met — sweet as his fresh oranges. Whenever my husband told me that, I couldn’t help but smile. Before he went back home, I knew he’d have a hundred coins in a plastic bag. We’d throw the coins at the fountain near our house, but instead of wishing, we’d tell things that we’ve always loved about each other. Our feelings within every coin thrown.
I was startled when my husband suddenly flung the door wide open. But I was delighted when I saw he had everything I knew he would bring. The tangerines looked perfectly ripened, the CD bulked on the pocket of his trench coat, the flowers bloomed in red, and the coins clunk from the plastic bag he held. I hugged my husband, hoping he would do the same. But he didn’t. He just walked through me, placed everything he had in his hands next to the urn beside our home altar, and slumped on the couch, my favorite spot in our home. I looked away, remembering it also happened to be my hundredth day.
My heart, or what’s left of it, ripped into pieces. He was still mourning my loss as much as I am.
