The Spaghetti Story - What I Remember
by Darren Stone

Jane,

Bradley asked me today, why I always close my eyes when I eat "sketti."
"Does it make you sleepy or somethin’?"
I told him, "It just reminds me of somebody." Then I lied, "But I can’t remember who."

"It makes you smile, though."
"Huh?"
"When you eat sketti. It makes you close your eyes and smile."

Yeah, Jane. It still makes me smile.


The truth is, I remember it like it was yesterday.
You sat across from me, bundled in the oversized grey sweater you bought in the Ski Village, just the day before. The firelight was dancing in the wine glasses. It was the end of a long, white day, and through the large glass windows, only the silhouette of the mountains was visible now.
The cover of the dinner menu was burgundy with gold script: "Ned’s Little Italy - Estes Park - Est. 1943." A picture of an old, Italian woman (presumably, Ned’s mother) was featured on the back.

"Best spaghetti in Colorado," said a tiny old woman, as she approached the table.
It soon became clear this woman was not our waitress, nor was she the woman on the back of the menu.
She was carrying a basket of handmade, corn-husk, Indian kochina dolls, and her price was, "Only five dollars." (I am wondering now, what ever became of your doll; as you know, mine stands proudly on the shelf above the headboard) After the purchase we were showered with Indian prayers for our every happiness together, and then our old woman whirled off to a far corner of the room, to another couple.

"Maybe we should have the spaghetti," I suggested. "She must know SOMETHING about the food in this town."
You stared at your fork. "Whatever you want is good for me." And then you gave me that look. You know the one, because you use it whenever a good movie ends. Or when it starts to rain. Or after a pillow fight.
Sometimes you give me the look, just before you step into the shower.
And to this day, you still give me that look when someone mentions "spaghetti."

Ned’s "best spaghetti in Colorado" was no longer our priority.
You had your coat on, by the time the waiter took our order.
You were already outside, by the time he returned with "two Spaghetti Dinners to go."


That little Indian woman may have been right or wrong. I don’t remember tasting the food. I don’t remember carrying the hot foil dinner tins, and I certainly don’t remember how we got back to our cabin.
I don’t remember who picked the music, who kissed who, or who left the cold, Italian dinner on the bed.


And, although most of the next eight hours passed in a blur of hair and heat and pillows and passion, I DO remember one thing: wiping spaghetti sauce from your chin at six o’clock in the morning, the coldest December 17th on record, Old Timberline Road, Estes Park, Colorado.