Yesterday was Sinko-de-Marcho. A day of celebration. A day that–over forty years ago–brought together two of my favorite people. I’ve heard this story since I was little and have created their whole world in my imagination:
He was a bachelor living in an apartment with his best friend. She was hanging out with his best friend. With so many people gathered at the small one-bedroom after work on this particular night, there were few places to sit and the dirty dishes were piled high in the sink. A typical night at the bachelor-pad. Most everybody–including the best friend–outside, elbows resting on the third-story rail. A few others occupy the only couch and only chair inside.
At yet, I imagine, it was like there were only two. His blue collar and her bobby socks. His dark hair combed to the side, her perfectly smoothed blonde bob. His hazel eyes turned green against the color of his shirt, her blue eyes sparkling.
No more places to sit inside except for the counter next to the sink full of dirty dishes. She sat. He did dishes. They talked. He rescued her and she him. They fell in love. The best friend was forgiving.
Every year on the anniversary of their first meeting, I call my mom to wish her a happy Sinko-de-Marcho. And every spring since he died, my dad sends her a beautiful bouquet of forget-me-nots, ones that were never planted but grow anyway, and that have slowly crept into the sink that sits buried in the flowerbed at the foot of the porch stairs. In another week, I will call her again and wish her a happy anniversary. This year marks 41 since that dark-haired boy married that blue-eyed girl.
I am participating in the Slice of Life Challenge 2015 at Two Writing Teachers. Thanks to their team and all my fellow slicers for making this a wonderful slice of life!