“Who is this? Do I know her?” She sifts through the shoebox full of old photographs. “He looks familiar … a cousin. I can’t quite remember — is it Ken? No, wait…Ben… that’s right…Ben. And this looks like … my Aunt Rose.”
“Yes,” he says, “that’s Ben and that’s Aunt Rose.”
The images slip through her fingers, like dry leaves, one by one, until she finds what she is searching for – a small snapshot taken on her wedding day. She had handed her camera to a passing stranger. “Would you take a picture of us, please? We just got married.”
Claire had ignored the uproar, all the warnings of her well-meaning family. She and Angelo quietly slipped out of Brooklyn on the early morning bus, bound for Chelsea , Massachusetts. After the ceremony, they had sat on a sunny bench next to the old courthouse. Alone, just the two of them, they’d promised to love each other forever. They were just kids.
Everyone said it was impossible. How could it last? He was an Italian boy from Bay Ridge, only twenty years old. He had no family, really, his mother and an elderly aunt. He worked in the trades, with dusty hands and denim overalls. And he was a Catholic.
Her Irish Protestant parents were outraged. “How could you do this to us? You are too young, Claire. We made plans for you! You said you wanted to go to business college and take over as manager at Dad’s store. It has all been arranged!” And why Angelo? What was so special about this boy that she would disregard her parent’s wishes, cause them so much grief?
The minute she’d met him she knew he was smart and steady. He was the kind of guy that didn’t let life just happen to him; he believed in planning ahead. He’d apprenticed himself to a trade that would keep him employed, even in hard times and he’d be able to find work anywhere. One more year of night classes and he would be a journeyman plumber, and a proud union man.
He was clever and capable, but he was kind, too, and so funny. Yes, all of that. But what made him such a treasure in Claire’s eyes, was a rare gift that he had: Angelo knew how to listen. He paid attention to her when she spoke, as if she had something important to say, which she often did. He didn’t interrupt, he had confidence in her. Even when she was wrong-headed, he heard what she was trying to say. Even at eighteen, Claire knew that a man who listens is worth more than rubies.
It turned out, of course, that the family had been wrong about their daughter’s choice, though they never once acknowledged it or apologized.
And now, as they look through the old shoe box full of photos, she doesn’t recognize all the faces any more, or know all the names. Her memory is fading, she is easily confused, but she still clearly remembers that early morning bus ride to Chelsea over sixty years ago. Her Angelo is still by her side and he’s still listening.
Beautiful
Such a beautiful story, Sharron. ♥️