PASSENGER OF IMPORTANCE

The box was made out of oak, which is really quite incredible if you think about it. One hundred years ago, Harry’s box would have been made of knotty, pitch-covered pine; that is, if they had even bothered with one. It had brass trim and a hand-stitched white velvet lining; Harry fit in it quite nicely. The men carried it across the lawn, and waited as the three car caravan solemnly pulled up. The passengers were of little importance to Harry, save for one Sandra Locklear. Sandra was to be Harry’s bride, his wife, his 'til death do they part. Today was to be their wedding day.
Harry had met Sandra three years ago through a mutual friend. He was immediately smitten with her. She proved to be indifferent, as women often are. Regardless, she agreed to go canoeing with him on a brilliantly sunny late spring day. They laughed the entire trip. Sandra taught Harry about the various birds they had encountered, and Harry entertained Sandra with impromptu operettas he sang about various domestic subjects. They stopped halfway to steal a farmer's corn, but after climbing up the steep shore, the corn proved to still be green. Out of nowhere, a storm blew in, and it began to pour. The rain cooled their sun-baked skin, and Sandra convinced the reluctant Harry to go swimming. Harry couldn’t swim. In the middle of a boring Midwestern river on an otherwise uneventful day, something marvelous happened, as Sandra held Harry afloat and taught him to "kick" his feet.
Thousands of people died that day, and as many, if not more, were born. Books were read, drugs were used and abused, myriad foods were consumed, and mundane tasks were performed, as were various acts of recreation. In the midst of all the world's mediocrity, something beautiful happened, as it does nearly every day.
They soon became inseparable, partaking in caffeine-fueled adventures across the land. Their first movie, their first kiss, their first trip to Niagara Falls. Romance blossomed, as is quite common in the world; though, to its individual constituents, nothing could be further from common.
A year passed, and Harry quit his job as a shipping and receiving clerk to pursue a career in painting. Sandra was promoted at the magazine. She became assistant-editor, and kept her monthly column. They moved in together. Lively conversations, passionate nights, jovial gatherings with friends, Sundays spent in bed. They were both happy.
With the passing of the second year, Harry’s belly had begun to swell, and Sandra was spending less time at the beauty parlor. They had fallen into a comfort zone that was simply that: comfortable.
Soon, Harry began devising plans to ask for Sandra’s hand. He consulted her father, and began scheming with his friends. It was decided that he would propose on a weekend trip to a vineyard in upstate Pennsylvania. Surely, greater men had devised greater plans; plans involving hot air balloons or grand interruptions during plays or films. But, on the cool day in late September, with the sun setting over the wine warmed couple, nothing else could have been more perfect.
On one knee, as was fitting to Harry’s classical style, he proposed to Sandra. She began to weep and said, quite simply, "Yes." They were engaged, and set to marry in three months.
The Thursday before the wedding, Sandra finally received a confirmation from the penny-pinching florist. Harry had just seen to it that his last groomsman had been properly fitted with a tuxedo. The preparations had nearly exhausted the couple. After dinner, they decided to go for a walk.
The clear sky was a stark contrast to the newly fallen snow. The couple went down to the park where they had spent many nights. They passed the conservatory, and stopped at the snow-covered willow tree. They laughed as they thought of the numerous times they had made love under that tree’s curtain. Tonight, such pleasures would have to wait until they were indoors and out of the bitter cold. They embraced under the tree before they started their way back to the place that was to be their home for countless untold years to come. And in their bed, after the game of love, they lay next to each other, beating hearts and silent breaths. The couple fell asleep in each other’s arms; content, yet oblivious, to the trouble which would begin the very next day.