📖 The Note in Her Collar — Part 9
March came in with wind and birdsong. The dogwood bloomed early that year, just as Walter hoped it would. Lola’s resting place beneath the tree was covered in a soft carpet of fallen white petals, and each time he passed it, he paused—never in mourning, but in conversation.
He’d taken to talking to her like she was still there.
Some days, he swore she was.
—
At Mayfield Pines, June had grown quieter. The days of clear speech and old laughter came less often now. There were long silences where she stared out the window, fingers folding and unfolding the edge of her sleeve.
Walter still came, though.
Even when she forgot his name.
Even when she called him “Daddy” or asked where her bike was.
He came, because being present was a kind of promise.
And Walter Bell was a man who honored his promises.
—
On a Tuesday afternoon, while clearing out an old desk drawer in the sewing room, Walter found something that made his breath catch.
It was a small envelope—yellowed with age, sealed but worn.
The handwriting on the front was unmistakable: “For W.B. – if I forget again.”
Marjorie’s handwriting.
His hands trembled as he sat down in the chair. He stared at the envelope a long while before finally breaking the seal.
Inside was a single page. The ink was a little faded, but still legible. He read it aloud, voice barely above a whisper:
Walt,
If I forget again—where I left the keys, what day it is, or whether I took the medicine—please be patient with me. It’s not stubbornness. It’s fear.
And if I forget the important things—the stories we told, the way we used to dance in the kitchen, or that I loved you—just know I didn’t mean to. The memories might go, but the love never will.
I know you. You’ll try to carry it all alone. But promise me something.
When you find someone who needs you as much as I did, don’t hesitate.
Give them your time. Your smile. Your quiet loyalty.
Because that’s what made life worth it, Walt. That’s what made you… you.
Love always,
Marjorie
He didn’t realize he was crying until a drop hit the paper and blurred the word always.
He folded the letter back, placed it in the envelope, and set it on top of Lola’s old blanket.
Then he picked up the phone.
—
The next morning, he arrived at Mayfield Pines with something new in hand: a small wooden box.
June was awake, her eyes clear but distant.
She watched him enter with a faint smile.
“You always bring things,” she said. “Flowers, letters, now boxes.”
Walter chuckled. “I think I’m trying to be remembered.”
June blinked. “Did I forget you again?”
“Only some days,” he said gently, setting the box on the table between them.
She stared at it. “Is it for me?”
He nodded. “You don’t have to open it. Not unless you want to.”
She reached for the lid slowly.
Inside were photographs. All of them.
Photos from the orchard. From the nursing home courtyard. Of Lola in the sunlight. Of June laughing in her yellow scarf.
And nestled beneath them, Walter had placed the note. The one from Lola’s collar.
June lifted it with trembling fingers.
She read it again, aloud this time.
“If found, please remind me to smile.”
Her voice cracked halfway through.
“I remember this,” she whispered. “I wrote it. A long time ago.”
Walter nodded. “And she did.”
June smiled—thin, uncertain, but real.
Then she looked at him, really looked at him.
“You’ve stayed with me,” she said. “Through all of this.”
“Not going anywhere,” Walter replied.
She reached for his hand.
“Even when I forget?”
“Especially then.”
—
That evening, he stopped by the dogwood tree one more time.
The wind was soft. The air smelled of rain.
He knelt beside the marker and set down the letter from Marjorie, wrapped in plastic, tucked neatly inside a stone box beside the soil.
He whispered, “You were right. I found someone.”
He placed his hand on the earth.
“And she helped me find myself.”
Then he sat there, long after the sun had dipped behind the trees, just watching the light change—just listening.
As if somewhere, beneath the bloom, a familiar tail might be wagging.
—
The next morning, June had a clear spell.
The nurses said it came suddenly—like someone turned on a lamp.
She asked for Walter.
He came as quickly as he could.
She was sitting up in bed, hair brushed, her yellow scarf laid over her lap.
“I think I remember,” she said, her eyes brighter than he’d seen in weeks.
“Remember what?”
“You. The orchard. The promise. The way you looked when you didn’t know how to dance.”
Walter laughed. “I still don’t.”
She reached for his hand.
“I don’t know how much time I have left,” she said. “But I want you to be here for it.”
“I already am,” he said.
“No,” she corrected gently. “Not just beside me. With me.”
And then, as if something unspoken had clicked into place, she added:
“She waited until we were ready.”
Walter nodded.
And for the first time since Lola’s passing, something in his chest eased.