Glass Zebras and Postcards

Sam and Carrie met on a plain Thursday afternoon. Carrie decided to enjoy the first warm afternoon of the year and eat her lunch outside. Sam took lunch outside everyday regardless of the weather.

"Life is too short to eat at a cubicle," Sam answered when asked about eating in the rain.

They had lunch together each day at the same table, shocked they had never met before even though they had worked in the same building for two years. Lunch dates turned into dinner dates and eventually stretched into weekends being spent together. It wasn't long until they decided it didn't make financial sense to rent two places when they only used one so they moved in together.

Carrie loved to cook and had perfected her grandmother's recipes. Sam was happy to wash the dishes with a belly full of comfort food. Sam teased Carrie about her collection of glass zebras that lived in every corner of the apartment while Carrie plotted to burn Sam's ratty college sweatshirt.

When Carrie's brother got married, they drank too much champagne and danced like fools the entire night. Carrie caught the bride's bouquet and waved it in Sam's face. They stumbled back to their hotel room above the reception hall with a final bottle of champagne swiped from behind the bar. Sam found a lottery ticket with a recent date left behind in the nightstand. They dreamed about seeing Venice, the Galapagos Islands and Beijing with their winnings. They wondered how hard it would be to travel with children and if they should try to see some of the world by themselves first. Carrie laughed until her sides ached the next morning when she realized Sam's lotto ticked was a valet ticket.

They had never been happier.

And then Sam got sick.

Cancer is an ugly word that comes with it's uglier friend called terminal. Time wasn't something they had worried about. They were young, whole lives left to live. Sam smiled and laughed it all off and planned a trip to Hawaii for the two of them.

"I just need a vacation."

Carrie begged Sam to try treatments before travelling, but lost the argument.

"Not much point to it, love."

They spent a week soaking in salty, warm air and listening to the waves crash on the sand. They kissed each kiss like it was their last and their first. Carrie committed each moment to a postcard memory and wished on the first star each night that she could live the same day over again tomorrow.

Sam held her hand and kissed her fingers when she cried on the plane ride home.

They were in the hospital before they expected, but anytime would have been too soon. Carrie decorated the beige walls with glossy travel magazine photos of white sand beaches, ancient Egyptian pyramids and St. Basils Cathedral in Moscow and even a few glass zebras. Colors of cultures from the world kept life and hope in the room. Sam promised to take her to every place including the ones she only saw in her dreams.

"I'm just going to get some coffee. I'll be right back."

When Carrie returned to Sam's floor, she was stopped by a nurse. She was refused admittance stating Sam's parents had arrived and requested only family be allowed in Sam's room. When she tried to explain they were practically married, but Sam had wanted to wait, the nurse could only apologize.

Sam died on a dark Wednesday.

Carrie received the news while she sat on a plum colored bench in the lobby. She learned that hearts don't break. They shatter like a glass figurine into millions of tiny shards that could never be put back together.

She never got to say goodbye.

Now imagine Sam was a man instead of her loving, nurturing other half that happened to be a woman.







I love stories about love: Indifference

And love lost: Solitary