SMILING TEARS

In my guest room that rarely has guests, on the wall between my hearing assisted phone and desk top computer, always visible, hangs a treasure. It is a walnut plaque, words engraved on a brass plate. I know them all by heart, even the date, 1985. That 12" by 14" nothing is everything. Some mornings a mere glance its way makes me teary, feel the emptiness without my Paul. That’s when my desk top computer reaches out to partly offer comfort. It see saws, goes up and down, grows into a big Tandy that Paul never had a chance to use, and I inherited. Now its baby brother takes up half the room of Tandy, comes with me on trips. We are friends. Emails fly, I search the web, write stories and always Paul smiles at me, so glad I have accepted what fate handed us and that I have grown without getting fat. My memories are as clear as the new DVDs, playable over and over. I would crumble without them.

In the glass case of my étagère lives a small papier mache’ clown. His outfit is green with big pink buttons. Tilted on his head is a pointed cap to match. He used to live almost hidden on a Mexican shelf in Acapulco, stuck between animals, children, balloon sellers. I walked up and down the aisles searching, searching for just the right one for me until I was on Paul’s nerves and he was on mine.’Go take a walk, Paul. I’ll meet you in ½ hour near the fountain to the right of this shop’s door.’ He goes, probably will find a cervasa stand nearby. I am running out of rows to check when I see just what I want. I reach up to the top shelf and take him in my hands, ‘Hello, Pierott,’ I say. No Pepe, no Pedro, no Pagliacci, my little Frenchman wasn’t too happy amongst all the Spaniards, so he doesn’t cry when I take him to the dark skinned, heavy boss.  Crocodile tears are on Pierott’s face. The boss gives me a price and I am supposed to argue with him but don’t quibble, pay his first price. He wraps my new friend in old Spanish newspapers, bows a Gracias and we are both free to find Paul.

I easily spot him at the fountain, his empty cervasa bottle near his feet. Not once does he show any interest in what I bought and I don’t bother telling him. ‘What was the big deal about buying that little thing wrapped up like trash?’ ‘You’ll see it when you see it, Paul.’

Back home, where I am so happy to be, I kiss my freezer door, feel the cleanliness of the bathrooms. Pierott stays silent in a corner of one suitcase. After our first night at home, Paul and I start to unpack. I need the right spot for my friend and go from room to room, shelf, to shelf until I find the place we can see each other every day and place him in the étagère.  ‘You’re home now, Pierott.’ I think I see him wink at me but maybe not.

Over the many years since he moved in, he has earned a place on one of my DVDs. The little Mexican shop is there, the rows and rows of balloon makers, animals, children are still there. One empty space glitters like pebbles washed by the ocean. Paul and I are there shopping, arguing, drinking beer from dripping bottles.

I sweat, hit repeat on my DVD player, lie down in my empty room and remember.