<\/p>\n
Marge’s Diner on the corner stood for fifty years and finally closed, and at the sale I bought the very jukebox I’d danced my whole youth away to.<\/p>\n
Big chrome thing. Buttons and lights. A Wurlitzer.<\/p>\n
The fella running the sale let it go cheap. He only said it hadn’t played in a long time and something rattled around inside.<\/p>\n
For that price, and a lifetime of memories, I didn’t ask a lot of questions.<\/p>\n
I brought it home, set it up in the living room, and set about bringing it back to life.<\/p>\n
And Lord, what evenings those were.<\/p>\n
Because that jukebox wasn’t just a jukebox.<\/p>\n
It was my whole young life.<\/p>\n
It was my Raymond, who dropped in a dime and asked me for my first dance to Patsy Cline right there between the tables back in 1965.<\/p>\n
We had forty-two years together after that, before I buried him.<\/p>\n
It was Saturday nights with the girls, milkshakes and French fries, laughing until we couldn’t breathe.<\/p>\n
It was the sound of teenagers arguing over which song to play next.<\/p>\n
It was Marge shouting from behind the counter that somebody better stop leaning on her jukebox.<\/p>\n
It was my youth.<\/p>\n
So I wiped down that chrome, changed the burnt-out bulbs, cleaned the buttons and polished the glass.<\/p>\n
When I finally got it working, I sat down in front of it and cried.<\/p>\n
Not sad tears exactly.<\/p>\n
The kind that come when something you thought was gone forever suddenly walks back into the room.<\/p>\n
The first record I played was Patsy Cline.<\/p>\n
I closed my eyes.<\/p>\n
For just a second, I could see Raymond again.<\/p>\n
Young Raymond.<\/p>\n
Twenty-two years old.<\/p>\n
Hair slicked back. White shirt. That crooked smile.<\/p>\n
His hand extended toward me.<\/p>\n
“May I have this dance?”<\/p>\n
I laughed aloud.<\/p>\n
“You’re not here anymore, Ray.”<\/p>\n
The record kept spinning.<\/p>\n
I opened the back of the jukebox the next morning to clean the mechanism.<\/p>\n
A jukebox is like a cabinet inside. The arm, the wiring, the records sitting on the carousel.<\/p>\n
I was wiping dust from the bottom when I noticed something wedged behind the mechanism.<\/p>\n
A little bundle.<\/p>\n
Wrapped in an old diner napkin.<\/p>\n
It wasn’t part of the jukebox.<\/p>\n
Somebody had put it there deliberately.<\/p>\n
And not recently.<\/p>\n
The napkin was yellowed and brittle.<\/p>\n
I pulled it out carefully and laid it on the coffee table.<\/p>\n
Then I unfolded it.<\/p>\n
Inside was a small envelope.<\/p>\n
No stamp.<\/p>\n
No address.<\/p>\n
Just three words written across the front in faded blue ink.<\/p>\n
FOR RAYMOND.<\/strong><\/p>\n My hands stopped.<\/p>\n I knew that handwriting.<\/p>\n Marge’s.<\/p>\n I hadn’t seen it in decades, but I knew it.<\/p>\n I sat there staring at that envelope for nearly five minutes.<\/p>\n Then I opened it.<\/p>\n Inside was a photograph.<\/p>\n It showed Marge standing behind the counter of the diner in 1965.<\/p>\n She was young.<\/p>\n Beautiful.<\/p>\n And standing beside her was Raymond.<\/p>\n My Raymond.<\/p>\n He was holding a paper bag.<\/p>\n On the back of the photograph were words written in Marge’s handwriting.<\/p>\n Ray, I know you love her. Don’t let your father take her away from you.<\/strong><\/p>\n I read it twice.<\/p>\n Then three times.<\/p>\n My heart started pounding.<\/p>\n There was another piece of paper beneath the photograph.<\/p>\n A letter.<\/p>\n I unfolded it.<\/p>\n Dear Ray,<\/p>\n I promised myself I’d give this to you, but I don’t know if I ever will.<\/p>\n Your father came in today.<\/p>\n He told me about the job he’s arranged for you in St. Louis.<\/p>\n He said you’re leaving next week.<\/p>\n He also said you won’t be coming back.<\/p>\n I don’t believe him.<\/p>\n Not because I think you’re a liar.<\/p>\n Because I saw the way you looked at that girl tonight.<\/p>\n I’ve watched you two for months.<\/p>\n You love her.<\/p>\n And she loves you.<\/p>\n So if you are reading this, please don’t leave without telling her the truth.<\/p>\n Don’t let somebody else’s decision become the story of your life.<\/p>\n Love,<\/p>\n Marge<\/p>\n I couldn’t breathe.<\/p>\n Raymond had always told me he almost lost me before we even started.<\/p>\n But I’d never known why.<\/p>\n I kept reading.<\/p>\n There was another letter.<\/p>\n This one was addressed to Marge.<\/p>\n Marge,<\/p>\n I talked to him.<\/p>\n He knows.<\/p>\n He said if I don’t take the job, he’ll cut me off completely.<\/p>\n I’m twenty-two and scared.<\/p>\n But I’m more scared of losing her.<\/p>\n I don’t know what I’m going to do.<\/p>\n Can you please keep this for me?<\/p>\n If I come back, give it to her.<\/p>\n If I don’t…<\/p>\n Well, maybe someday she’ll understand.<\/p>\n Ray.<\/p>\n I put the letter down.<\/p>\n My eyes filled with tears.<\/p>\n All those years.<\/p>\n Forty-two years with Raymond.<\/p>\n Forty-two years of believing I knew every important chapter of our story.<\/p>\n And here was a missing chapter.<\/p>\n A chapter he’d carried quietly for the rest of his life.<\/p>\n There was one final envelope.<\/p>\n It was thicker.<\/p>\n Inside was a newspaper clipping.<\/p>\n The headline read:<\/p>\n LOCAL YOUNG MAN TURNS DOWN ST. LOUIS JOB, CHOOSES HOME<\/strong><\/p>\n I stared at the date.<\/p>\n July 1965.<\/p>\n One month after our first dance.<\/p>\n Beneath the headline was a tiny photograph.<\/p>\n Raymond.<\/p>\n He was smiling.<\/p>\n The article said he’d turned down a position in St. Louis to stay in town and work at his father’s garage.<\/p>\n I laughed through my tears.<\/p>\n “Idiot,” I whispered.<\/p>\n Then I saw something else.<\/p>\n At the bottom of the envelope was a note.<\/p>\n This one wasn’t from Marge.<\/p>\n It was from Raymond.<\/p>\n And the handwriting was unmistakable.<\/p>\n My hands trembled as I opened it.<\/p>\n Dear Margaret,<\/strong><\/p>\n If you’re reading this, then Marge finally gave you what I couldn’t.<\/strong><\/p>\n I wanted to tell you about the job. I wanted to tell you that I chose you. But every time I tried, I couldn’t find the words.<\/strong><\/p>\n So I did what men of my generation were good at. I kept quiet and hoped my actions would speak for me.<\/strong><\/p>\n I don’t know if that’s brave or cowardly. Probably a little of both.<\/strong><\/p>\n But if you ever wonder whether I regretted staying, please remember this:<\/strong><\/p>\n The best decision I ever made was asking you for that first dance.<\/strong><\/p>\n The second-best was every dance after it.<\/strong><\/p>\n I love you.<\/strong><\/p>\n Ray<\/strong><\/p>\n I pressed the letter against my chest.<\/p>\n And then I noticed the date at the bottom.<\/p>\n December 1998.<\/p>\n Six months before Raymond died.<\/p>\n He must have written it knowing he wouldn’t have many years left.<\/p>\n And Marge had kept it all that time.<\/p>\n Hidden inside the jukebox.<\/p>\n The same jukebox where we’d danced.<\/p>\n The same jukebox that had played our first song.<\/p>\n The same jukebox that had witnessed nearly every important moment of our youth.<\/p>\n I sat there until the record stopped spinning.<\/p>\n Then I heard a knock at my door.<\/p>\n It was Marge’s daughter, Susan.<\/p>\n She’d heard I’d bought the jukebox.<\/p>\n “I’ve been meaning to come see you,” she said.<\/p>\n I held up the letters.<\/p>\n She went pale.<\/p>\n “Mom always wondered if you’d find those.”<\/p>\n I looked at her.<\/p>\n “She knew?”<\/p>\n Susan nodded.<\/p>\n “She put them there.”<\/p>\n “Why didn’t she give them to me?”<\/p>\n Susan smiled sadly.<\/p>\n “She tried.”<\/p>\n I didn’t understand.<\/p>\n “She tried?”<\/p>\n “Three times.”<\/p>\n Susan sat beside me.<\/p>\n “Every time she came to your house, she couldn’t do it.”<\/p>\n “Why?”<\/p>\n “Because she said some memories belong to the person who lived them.”<\/p>\n I looked down at Raymond’s letter.<\/p>\n Susan continued.<\/p>\n “Mom said Raymond came to the diner the week before he died. He asked her to keep the letters somewhere safe.”<\/p>\n I swallowed hard.<\/p>\n “What did he say?”<\/p>\n Susan smiled.<\/p>\n “He said, ‘If Margaret ever buys that jukebox, she’ll know where to look.'”<\/p>\n I stared at the machine.<\/p>\n Suddenly, everything made sense.<\/p>\n The cheap sale.<\/p>\n The rattling sound.<\/p>\n The bundle hidden behind the mechanism.<\/p>\n Maybe Raymond had always known the jukebox would eventually find its way back to me.<\/p>\n Maybe he had trusted time to do what he couldn’t.<\/p>\n Bring me the truth.<\/p>\n Susan stood to leave.<\/p>\n At the door, she turned.<\/p>\n “My mom always said one more thing.”<\/p>\n “What?”<\/p>\n She smiled.<\/p>\n “She said you two were the best love story that ever played in her diner.”<\/p>\n After she left, I turned the jukebox on.<\/p>\n The lights flickered.<\/p>\n The motor hummed.<\/p>\n And then, almost like it had been waiting all these years, the record selector clicked into place.<\/p>\n Patsy Cline.<\/p>\n Our song.<\/p>\n I sat there alone in my living room.<\/p>\n Then I stood.<\/p>\n I put one hand on my hip.<\/p>\n I held out the other.<\/p>\n “Come on, Ray.”<\/p>\n The room was empty.<\/p>\n But I could almost feel his hand in mine.<\/p>\n And for the first time since I buried him, I danced.<\/p>\n Not because I had forgotten that he was gone.<\/p>\n Because I finally understood something.<\/p>\n Love doesn’t disappear when somebody dies.<\/p>\n Sometimes it hides.<\/p>\n In photographs.<\/p>\n In letters.<\/p>\n In old songs.<\/p>\n In the chrome of a forgotten jukebox.<\/p>\n And sometimes, after half a century, it finds its way home.<\/p>\n That night, I left the jukebox playing until the last record finished.<\/p>\n Then I looked at Raymond’s letter one more time.<\/p>\n At the bottom, beneath his name, he’d written something I hadn’t noticed before.<\/p>\n Four little words.<\/p>\n Save me a dance.<\/strong><\/p>\n So I did.<\/p>\n I always will.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" The Secret Inside Marge\u2019s Jukebox Marge’s Diner on the corner stood for fifty years and finally closed, and at the sale I bought the very jukebox I’d danced my … <\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":5041,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[13],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-5040","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-new-post"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/senglee168.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/5040","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/senglee168.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/senglee168.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/senglee168.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/senglee168.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=5040"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/senglee168.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/5040\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":5042,"href":"https:\/\/senglee168.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/5040\/revisions\/5042"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/senglee168.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/media\/5041"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/senglee168.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=5040"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/senglee168.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=5040"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/senglee168.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=5040"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}