𝐒𝐈𝐗𝐓𝐘 𝐄𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 𝐘𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐒

༻ ❁ ༺
 

   February 11th, 2013

          IT WAS RAINING in Washington, D.C., a bitter drizzle that was unavoidable at this time of year. Tourists were scarce at the time. The majority of them awaited spring, when the weather would warm and the cherry blossom trees would bloom.

But the weather could not win out against sentiment. And after sixty eight years, a woman deserved to be sentimental.

The fact that she was a ninety-four-year-old woman with a little rolling luggage, flying alone, drew some curious looks in the airport terminal. But, if anyone inquired, she'd smile and say she was visiting an old friend.

This trip was long overdue.

The Smithsonian exhibit had been open for months, but the preparations had taken time. The early trip had been difficult, but she had the blessing of being so old that she had slept through the majority of it.

The cab ride to her hotel from the airport was uneventful, as was the check-in. While her room was well-appointed, it was nondescript. After placing her little luggage on the folding riser, the bellhop handed her a small envelope holding her key cards and left her alone.

Alone at last, Alice sat down on the bed. Things were so much more difficult as you got older.

One would never distinguish her as the young woman who had flown around the world and marched through France with legends, the ones children were taught about in school. Her brown hair had become white with age, and her once-steady hands now trembled when it rained.

She looked down at them and gave a quick shake of her head. What an eventful life she had led. She wished he'd been able to share it with her.

Alice pushed herself to her feet again after a few moments' respite, catching a sight of herself in the mirror above the dresser, her gaze drawn to the wink of the small opal earrings she wore. She softly stroked them, comforted by their presence.

With a short call to the concierge desk, she was able to arrange for a cab to fetch her up. She draped the bag over her arm and left the room after dropping the key cards in her little pocketbook.
  

  
༻ ❁ ༺
  

The Smithsonian Museum was the kind of place Alice had always wanted to go. She had never tired of being surrounded by history, the stories of a thousand lifetimes.

It was like going into her past when she saw the banners draping from the ceiling with the familiar face on them. She could almost hear the mortars, hear old friends laughing, and smell the pungent aroma of coffee prepared over the camp stove.

It was funny, being surrounded by all these memories of an old friend.

Steve, the small, sickly kid from Brooklyn who could never walk away from a fight, was someone she'd heard about but never met. It was difficult for her to reconcile the towering, muscular gentleman she knew with the thin man in the photos that surrounded her, yet there was the same passionate purpose in his eyes.

Trailing behind a tour group, she made her way through Steve's time at basic and his brief career as a performer.

Then she turned into the next room and came to a complete halt, her heart lurching in pain. She'd expected it, but nothing could have prepared her for coming face to face with Bucky Barnes' etched-glass memorial.

She took her time approaching it, stopping just in front of it to run her delicate fingers over the beloved's face. She still misses his smile as much as she did the day she lost him, even though it had been almost seventy years - an entire lifetime. His laugh, the twinkle in his eyes, and the sound of his voice were all missed.

Alice continued through the exhibit, taking in the artifacts that the museum had collected.

One of Steve's sketchbooks was open to a page with a cartoon monkey walking on a tightrope. There was also Dugan's infamous bowler hat, which had been acquired with some difficulty from its owner, with pledges that it would be returned in immaculate shape once the display was over.

She moved to the far wall, where five mannequins, one for each of Steve's Howling Commandos, stood in front of a flag-draped backdrop, dressed in their original combat uniform.

She knew the etiquette, that she should keep her hands to herself, but it took all of her willpower not to reach out and feel that familiar blue jacket under her fingertips one final time.

A distant romantic part of her mind wondered if it would still smell like wood smoke, the way it used to when she had buried her face in its owner's chest.

She needed to sit down and gather her thoughts. In the next room, there was an alcove with a flickering projection screen. Alice slipped inside and carefully lowered herself upon the rear wall's curved seat. And she found herself staring into his eyes.

The projector was playing footage of the Howling Commandos on a loop, complete with interviews of each.

But all she could see was Bucky.

Bucky is smiling with Steve, his arm around the shoulder of his best friend. Jacques and Morita laughing with Bucky during one of their London visits. Bucky and the rest of the Commandos are riding shotgun in the back of a vehicle on their way to another base.

It was too much, all of it just too much. But she couldn't look away. Could only sit and watch the videos play over and over, tears streaming down her cheeks, and remember the love she had lost. 
 

Close your eyes,
Rest your head on my shoulder and sleep
Close your eyes, and I will close mine.

Close your eyes, let's pretend that we're both counting sheep,
Close your eyes, oh this is divine.

Music play something dreamy for dancing,
While we're here romancing
It's love's holiday, and love will be our guide.

Close your eyes,
When you open them dear,
I'll be by your side
So won't you close your eyes.

𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐘 𝐒𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐘 𝐇𝐀𝐒 𝐀 𝐃𝐄𝐅𝐈𝐍𝐈𝐓𝐈𝐕𝐄 𝐁𝐄𝐆𝐈𝐍𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐄𝐍𝐃𝐈𝐍𝐆

𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐘𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐈𝐒 𝐒𝐄𝐓 𝐈𝐍 𝐒𝐓𝐎𝐍𝐄; 𝐈𝐓 𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐏𝐄𝐍𝐒 𝐀𝐒 𝐈𝐓 𝐒𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐋𝐃

𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐘𝐄𝐓

𝐓𝐈𝐌𝐄, 𝐒𝐏𝐀𝐂𝐄, 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐋𝐈𝐓𝐘

𝐈𝐓'𝐒 𝐌𝐎𝐑𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐍 𝐀 𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐄𝐀𝐑 𝐏𝐀𝐓𝐇

𝐈𝐓'𝐒 𝐀 𝐏𝐑𝐈𝐒𝐌 𝐎𝐅 𝐄𝐍𝐃𝐋𝐄𝐒𝐒 𝐏𝐎𝐒𝐒𝐈𝐁𝐈𝐋𝐈𝐓𝐘

𝐈 𝐀𝐌 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐀𝐓𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐑, 𝐈 𝐀𝐌 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐆𝐔𝐈𝐃𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐑𝐎𝐔𝐆𝐇 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐒𝐄 𝐕𝐀𝐒𝐓 𝐍𝐄𝐖 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐋𝐈𝐓𝐈𝐄𝐒

𝐅𝐎𝐋𝐋𝐎𝐖 𝐌𝐄 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐃𝐀𝐑𝐄 𝐓𝐎 𝐅𝐀𝐂𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐔𝐍𝐊𝐍𝐎𝐖𝐍

𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐏𝐎𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐐𝐔𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍

𝐖𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐈𝐅...?

𝐖𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐈𝐅,
𝐎𝐍 𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐌𝐈𝐒𝐒𝐈𝐎𝐍 𝐓𝐎 𝐑𝐄𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐓𝐎𝐍𝐄𝐒, 𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐕𝐄 𝐑𝐎𝐆𝐄𝐓𝐒
𝐌𝐀𝐃𝐄 𝐀 𝐅𝐈𝐍𝐀𝐋 𝐕𝐈𝐒𝐈𝐓
𝐓𝐎 𝐀 𝐆𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐕𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐅𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐍𝐃?