The Ticking of the Clock

My time as an American foreign exchange student in Germany had flown by and the end of August was quickly drawing near. During the last full week, nothing was mentioned, by any of us, about having to leave the following week to return to America. It was as if avoiding the topic of departure altogether might somehow prevent the day from ever arriving. Though Mario and I were painfully aware of the ticking of the clock and the fact that we had only three days left, we did our best to go through each day as if there were a million more days ahead of us.

It was Friday afternoon and we were scheduled to leave Germany the following Tuesday. The students at Eringerfeld had the opportunity to go home every other weekend and the coming weekend was one of those weekends. A friend of mine and Mario's had planned to throw a going away party for me that weekend at her parent's house.
Before my friend's parents arrived to pick us up, she and I went to a shop in nearby Geseke so I could look for a gift for Mario. I had no idea what I wanted to get him but I wanted it to remind him of me whenever he looked at it. I wanted it to be special. I wanted to tell him, without words, how much I loved him. After looking at several items and asking my friend's opinion, I finally narrowed the selection down to a silver bracelet on which I would have mine and Mario's names engraved. The bracelet was placed in a gift box which I planned to keep in my purse until just the right moment.

My German friend's father picked Mario, my friend and I up at Eringerfeld and we made our way toward the autobahn, which is part of Germany's federal motorway system. Even if you've never been on the autobahn before you've probably heard that there's really no speed limit and people drive quite fast. While there's an advisory speed limit of 130 kilometers per hour, which is equal to about 80 miles per hour, it is just that...an advisory speed limit; a mere suggestion. Drivers on the autobahn can and do drive much faster than the advisory speed limit and my friend's father was no exception to that rule.

From my spot in the back seat on the passenger's side, my eyes grew wide as I watched the speedometer creep up above 100 kph and continue to arch over toward the right. I felt as if I was a passenger in an Indy 500 race car. I looked out the window to distract myself from the steadily increasing speed but the scenery was going by so fast I could barely stand to look at it without feeling dizzy. The car continued to catapult down the highway at warp speed as I gripped the front edge of the seat. As I stared straight ahead I envisioned the ride to be similar to that of a ride in one of those space age cars seen in the cartoon "The Jetsons". I expected us to lift off at any moment and take to the skies, but it never happened. A few minutes later we were at my friend's house and I had lived to tell about my experience on the autobahn.

Details of the going away party that evening are vague, though there are a few things I remember for sure: the parents left for the night, the music was nonstop as was the drinking, and Mario and I hung back from the crowd, spending most of our time standing alone on a nearby stairway. The heat from Mario's body radiated onto my back as he stood one step behind me. The fingers of his left hand stroked my hair and, on occasion, I leaned my head back against his chest. Friends would stop over to talk to us for a minute or two then return to the main part of the room to dance and mingle with each other.

Not one word was uttered between Mario and I that entire night. A somberness surrounded and enveloped us as the realization of what was taking place finally set in. Mario and I hadn't allowed ourselves to think about it up until that point but when you're in the midst of a going away party it's hard to avoid the fact that someone is going away. Sadly, that someone was me.

Mario's magnetic smile and sparkling eyes had been replaced that evening by a seriousness I'd not seen in him before. I tried not to think about leaving on Tuesday but it was nearly impossible. As much as we wanted to enjoy and cherish our last few days together, a dark and dismal pallor had been cast over any potential enjoyment. As quickly as we'd fallen in love, our ability to nurture that love was about to be taken away.

In the wee hours of the night, Mario went home and I went to sleep at my friend's house. I don't recall the drive back to Eringerfeld the way I remember the details of the drive to my friend's home. In fact, the remainder of the weekend is a blur of hanging out with friends and soaking up as much time together as we possibly could.

Before the weekend drew to a close, I decided to give Mario his bracelet. In a quiet moment alone, late Sunday afternoon, I placed the box in his hand and anxiously watched him open it. He lifted the bracelet out of the box, read the inscription and smiled at me. "Thank you", he whispered, then he kissed me. I helped him put the bracelet around his left wrist, then slid my hand beneath his and watched as our fingers folded together.

For an eternity, I stared at his wrist, memorizing the way the silver chain lay against his skin just above the strong hand that had so tenderly held mine everyday for the past month. I closed my eyes, focusing on the feel of his skin against mine. How is it that thirty years later you can still remember the way it felt when someone held your hand? Though I cannot answer that question with words, I can tell you that when I sit quietly and close my eyes, I can feel Mario's hand slide over mine and I feel our fingers slide into place just as perfectly as the last two pieces of a puzzle.