The green of the forests, the snow that yet covered parts of the ground, the bells tinkling their random carols from around thick bovine necks, an occasional hiking yodeler who could be heard, and glimpses far to the south of the towering peaks of purest white—all these added their own soothings to his spirit and reminded him of letters from long ago, even as those who cared for him watched over the healing of his wound and leg.

Even if he did walk again, however, what did it matter, he thought. What would anything ever mean again… without her to share it with?

Life had been so good, so rich, so full of joy! He had never imagined it was possible to know such happiness!

Then so suddenly and cruelly had the evil hand of fate snatched it all away!

So it seemed, at least, in his more disconsolate moments, though deep inside he tried to convince himself otherwise. He did not believe in fate any more than she had, though during these days of darkness, it was very difficult not to slip back into old patterns of thought.

He knew what she would say, that all things turned out good in the end. That this catastrophe could ever be called good he would never accept. That it might work for good he occasionally allowed himself to contemplate, though such was an idea equally strenuous to lay hold of.

Yet he knew that is exactly what she would say. For the sake of her memory he would do his best to hang on to that truth.

Her memory—it was all he had left.

The sound of her voice in his ear… the musical ringing of her laughter… images of her teeth and lips and smile…

Her memory… and these few dried leaves in the container she had given him. What a treasure they had been to share! Now these too seemed lifeless and old, the aroma of their once-cheery perfume now turned pungent and melancholy.

He could no more keep himself from the bittersweet nostalgia than he could bring her back. Though the smell seared his heart with hot iron, it was the odor… of her.

He raised the box to his face, lifted the lid, and leaned forward to place his nostrils over the opening of the small container.

He breathed deeply the ancient fragrance of many years. He had done so a hundred times before this and would a hundred times again. For in the aroma were many secrets, and his was the only heart that knew them.

He set the small box back in his lap, a lonely tear now falling from his eye, and, continuing to rock, he let his mind drift back many years to the first day he had seen the beautiful face of the one with whom he had discovered the mystery of love.

PART I: The Mystery of the Garden-Summer, 1937

PART I

The Mystery of the Garden—Summer 1937