Red Gingham Apron

Al died the next day. Bad things tended to put the good in perspective for me. Mom took it harder than I did and had an early afternoon mix, she said, "to celebrate the life of a damn good dog." I knew better. Whether he died of loneliness or just age I'm not sure. Loneliness was the culprit, and I blamed myself for being so inattentive. But he was a good dog. We'd had him since I was five. Mom got him for me the winter dad had left us. We'd had our days in the sun with him, and maybe the move had been too much for him. The back yard seemed the customary place for burial.

Jilly, as I came to call her later that summer, came by and helped me dig the grave. She brought daisies for mom, who was half drunk, and remained inside as we held the service near sundown. I will say I heard her weeping. Over Al. Or maybe it was still dad.

"Poor guy." Jill said. "Never got the chance to really know him. I'm sure he was great." She spoke about him like he was a real person. I liked that. A tear escaped me and traced down my cheek. I wiped it quickly away. I shouldn't let Jilly see me cry just yet. I'd save that for a better occasion.

I'd just lost a dear friend. But I'd gained an even better one. Jilly and I wouldn't come to call each other boyfriend and girlfriend until almost a year later. But we knew what we were. We'd gather apples and mess around almost everyday. The apple tree was our place, our space and our time. It was the only place that was completely our own, totally ours. We never went all the way, until four years later. We waited, and I'm glad we did. It was amazing.

Apple pie, to this day, is still my favorite dessert. She bakes one at least once a week. It keeps the romance alive. And the red gingham apron is her way of reminding me of what once was. She's a doll.