Author's note:  Jonas and ShipperChick, here is my penance for One Night. It didn't turn out quite as shippy as I first thought, but I think you'll approve! ;-)

 I only have one real memory of my father.  Oh sure, I have his voice forever immortalized on a multitude of cassettes, but much as I hate to admit it, the tinny replica of his low tones stirs my restless nature rather than soothes it.  But something that truly was his that I can physically hold onto, of that there is only one.

Years ago, on a rainy April day, the day in fact, when Mom had finally given up on his ever returning, she decided to pack up his things and place them in storage.  She knew at some point that I would want to look through them. At the time, I believe she thought it was more painful to see them every day than to carefully wrap and store them away.  She was wrong.

I remember wandering into their room after growing bored of the cartoons on TV.  Mom stood in front of his bureau and lightly clasped a small bottle in her hands.  Silent tears coursed down her cheeks and I watched mesmerized by the sight.  I don't think I'd ever seen my mother cry before then.  She carefully pulled the small stopper out of the bottle and touched the opening to her wrist, tipping it just enough to allow a tiny drop to descend.   She replugged the bottle, raised her wrist to her nose and took in a deep breath.  Her face...there's no other word for it...it crumpled, and she wrapped her arms tightly around herself. 

I felt ashamed, standing there, saying nothing.  But what comfort could a seven year old boy be to a woman who needed a man, one man in particular? 

I remember asking if she were OK.  At first, I don't think she heard me, but then, she looked up and opened her arms, urging me into them.  I stepped cautiously to her, unsure how to deal with her tears.  She hugged me fiercely for a moment, then loosened her grip.

"I miss him, son."  I remember she murmured.  "I think some part of me will always miss him.  But whenever it gets to be too much, I pull out this." She released me fully and opened her fist to reveal the small bottle.  It was made of plain glass and had no label to denote the contents.  But I knew just the same.  It was his cologne.

"If I need him, I just put a little bit on and it's like he never left. He's right behind me."  She tried to smile, and barely succeeded before she pressed the bottle into my hands.  "I want you to have it, Harm.  For those times when his voice isn't enough."

I can still feel the skin-warmed bottle as it lay in my hand.  The spicy-sweet scent it contained wafted over us, and she was right.  Dad was there.  His arms were wrapped around the two of us. 

"But you have to promise me something, son."  She gripped my shoulders in an effort to reinforce her point.  "It's a special blend; there's no other like it in the world.  And when it's gone, so is this."  Smiling sadly she glanced around the room, savoring the feeling of warm comfort and love that surround us.  "Promise me you'll only use it when you really need him."

I remember solemnly giving my word to her tear-filled gaze and to this day, I have kept my promise.  Over the past thirty or so years, I have only opened the bottle a handful of times and actually worn the cologne even fewer.  But tonight...tonight, I want him with me. 

So after I finish dressing, I open the cedar box on my dresser and pull out a small felt bag.  Through years of careful handling, patches of the fabric have worn smooth.  But inside is a treasure beyond words.  I hold the bottle lightly, saying a silent prayer; heartfelt words for the man I now know only through images and feelings.  Removing the stopper, I pour a small amount into my hand and rub it across my face.  As the spicy-sweet scent washes over me, I smile.  The air around me seems to take on a life of its own and I swear I can feel someone else in the room. 

Closing my eyes, I whisper, "Dad, I'm going to ask the woman I love to marry me.  And I'd like you to meet her."
 

END