The Sunday Morning Obituaries

Reading the obituaries this morning, I came across Jaclyn. I hadn’t thought of her much in fifty years, but maybe I think of her a little every day in some way, certainly I think of her in autumn.

My wife came over and asked if I knew someone today. I pointed Jaclyn out. My wife asked if she was one of the five. When my wife asks me if she is one of the five, she means is she one of the five women I slept with before I married her. I tell her no every time, even if it’s not true.

My wife was a virgin when we married, or so she said. I had no reason to believe otherwise, and she has never led on it was untrue. I didn’t have to wait too long. I can’t say I was stoic and would have waited forever. Three months after I started dating her a war broke out and I was shipped out. I was away six months and asked her to be my wife in one of my letters.

Jaclyn and I made love under fruit trees in her father’s orchard. Often, we would be stung by hard-working bees that got in the way of our ravage love. Even when the air cooled at night, we’d sneak into the fields and have at it. Her family was from the Ukraine and sometimes when we made love she’d yell out, “I’m coming” or “Oh, love” in the old language. Beautiful words. She was beautiful.

I don’t remember now why we split apart. Why I married Isabelle instead of Jaclyn. When I think of her, I taste sweet honey. And when my wife asks if she is one of the five, I tell her no. No, she was something else.