Chocolate Eggs


In the spring, when Easter candy began appearing on the shelves of all the groceries, he would always buy bags of them and eat it piece by piece until spring and chocolate mixed into summertime.  

The first year I knew him, I was too poor to buy frivolities like candy, and had convinced myself for months that I had grown out of my childish habit of eating the stuff.  I never said a word when he sat beside me, munching loudly on peanut butter balls and fudge slices and animal-shaped pastel-colored chewy candy.  I ignored him when the smell of chocolate permeated the room we shared.  I even let it go when he left the brightly-colored wrappers and boxes lying around everywhere.  

But, one day, he brought in a bag of chocolate eggs.  They were so small, and smelled so strongly, and I was too embarrassed to ask.  On a quiet afternoon when he was gone, I nicked a single chocolate egg, devouring it greedily and half-guiltily.  No one notices, I told myself, and, anyway, he was probably too laid-back to care.  

A week later, on the first day of summer, I found three foil-wrapped chocolate eggs sitting on my desk.  

In the three years we lived together and became close friends, he always continued the tradition.  He never said anything, never indicated that it had anything to do with him, but it was obvious to me.  Every year, on the first day of summer, I received three chocolate eggs to celebrate the season change.  Eventually, it became a habit for me to eat chocolate eggs on the first day of summer, even after we both moved out of that dormitory and grew up.  Even long, long after I lost contact with him.  

One rainy day in early June, I came home from work to find a small package on my doorstep.  It contained a single chocolate egg, and a short note.  I know it's a bit early, but thought you'd be glad to see it…  There was no return address, or even a signature, but I knew who it was, though I found it bizarre that he had only sent one.  Back when we lived together, he had always left three, without fail.  Without his contacts, however, there was no way for me to ask him.  

A week later, another package showed up, this time at my office.  It was addressed and boxed very professionally, and no one seemed to realize it really did not belong in interoffice mail.  Inside, there was another chocolate egg, and another note.  Did you ever wonder about the significance of the three?  No, was the answer, but, as soon as he mentioned it, the thought refused to leave my head.  Why had he decided on exactly three chocolate eggs?  His statement suggested the number symbolized something, but I was completely at a loss as to what.  

Finally, one more week later, on the first day of summer, the last chocolate egg arrived.  It was specially sent by a delivery service to my door, and I had to sign for it, feeling slightly foolish but rather excited at the same time.  I mostly ignored the chocolate as I scrambled to see if he had written anything that would give away the meaning of the three.  The note simply read: If thoughts were chocolates…

If thoughts were chocolates…that would mean he was thinking three things?  But three of what things?  Three thoughts?  Or three sentences?  Or…three…words…

My first response was to mentally kick myself, because that just could not be the case.  It could not be the infamous Three Words.  Just…just no.  

But…as I thought it over, I realized there was a huge perhaps I had always missed in my obliviousness.  And the meaning of the three, and what he had done with the eggs, and all the things we had shared in the past-everything seemed to go into focus.  

The strangest part was, I found myself unable to be distressed by the fact.  In our younger days, we had been incredibly close, and, for as long as we lived together, he had always indulged me and looked after me, without any desire to be repaid.  He had been someone I trusted and was quite fond of, and the fact that he cared for me in such a way made me feel oddly optimistic.  My greatest regret was not having a way of finding him again.  

And so, I began a long, awkward, and possibly obsessive search, doubtless-I realized one day-the same way he found out my contacts.  I looked for him in every telephone directory I could get my hands on.  I asked everyone I knew, and random people at the supermarket, and service personnel in stores.  I inquired at the hotel concierge on business trips.  I visually sifted through crowds, automatically eavesdropped ten seconds on every conversation I passed, and occasionally simply wandered around the city on the slim chance we would meet.  

Because I wanted to try.  I wanted to try with him and see if it worked.  I wanted to try with him, and no one else.  

Between my all-consuming search and the requirements of daily life, time passed in a blur.  Suddenly, without my noticing, flowers were springing from the cherry and crabapple trees on the street.  People drifted by, holding hands, giggling girlishly, stealing embarrassed kisses…

I did not buy any chocolate that May.  

I had not found him, and even if I wanted to say something like "I'll never give up," the problem was the sheer impossibility of the situation.  He could be anywhere in the world, really, and the probability that I, a single person, would meet him at random was too small to matter.  I tried to keep looking, but was quickly running out of options.  Spring was oddly grey for me that year, and it seemed to always be drizzling.  

So, the days passed me by.  

On a particularly bright afternoon, as I was hiding in my house from the far-too-happy sun, my doorbell rang.  I was feeling somewhere between restless and listless-as if I should be out searching with every second I had, at the same time knowing it was unlikely to be any different from all the other days-so I laid back down on the bed and pretended no one was home.  

The doorbell rang again.  There was a pause, before it rang a third time.  

A longer silence ensued, during which I assumed my visitor had given up.  As soon as the thought ran through my head, however, the bell rang again, slowly, as if the person at my door had wanted to try just once more.  Somehow, that "just once more" feeling made me sympathize with whoever it was, because I had felt the same thing every day of my fruitless searching.  

Fueled by that thought, I jumped up and raced to the door, my feet thumping ungracefully on the ground.  Hoping I was in time, I pulled the lock and yanked the door open hard.  

Time stopped.  

My heart stopped.  

Everything stopped.  

"Looking for me?" I heard him say, as the world started up again.  

My face flushed at my inability to reply.  

"I was told you were looking for me?" he continued, trying to drag me back to my comfort zone.  

"…I was."  

"Oh.  What's up, then?"  

"I…"  He waited patiently, a munificent smile on his face.  "I wanted…"  Conveying everything I wanted would take more words than my brain could manage at that moment, so I simply threw myself forward until he was tightly clutched in my arms.  

I had found him.  I had found him.  I had found him.  

The hell was I ever, ever letting go again.  

He simply laughed, returning my embrace momentarily, and then letting me cling to him as he scooted us both into my house.  

"I'm not letting go," I informed him.  "Ever."  His smile was teasing, and I frowned.  "I mean it."  

"I'm very glad you do, but…"  His smile widened.  "You'll have to let go if you want to open this."  

"Huh?" I answered intelligently, my grip loosening in confusion.  He spun me around to face the package he had been holding the entire time, and placed my hands on it.  

When the box fell open, I was surprised to see three chocolate eggs sitting neatly inside.  

I love you, the note said this time.  

My heart warmed.  

Suddenly, I remembered it was the first day of summer.