My friends at work were planning a trip to the Bahamas（巴哈马群岛）. “Why don’t you come with us, Nancy?” one of them urged. “You need to do something nice for yourself.” She was probably right, but I didn’t feel like doing much of anything without my husband, Sherm, who had died 18 months earlier. It was still a struggle for me to get through every day on my own. Even simple tasks seemed overwhelming.
Like checking on his car, I thought, remembering one last loose end. Sherm loved cars. He had picked me up for our first date 33 years earlier in his’ 55 Chevy. It was in tip-top shape, but the glove compartment（汽车仪表板上的小柜）kept popping open and banging me on the knees. Sherm laughed and snapped it shut. After a few dates, it became our private joke. “From now on, you’re in charge of glove-compartment detail,” Sherm teased.
We courted for six months. One day when Sherm picked me up for church he looked nervous. “What’s on your mind?” I asked. He reached over and popped the glove compartment. Inside was a small velvet（平滑光亮的）box. He slipped the diamond ring on my finger, and several months later I became Mrs. Sherman Durham.
In 1969 Sherm traded in his Chevy (I cleaned out the glove compartment beforehand) and bought his dream car, a Chevelle Super Sport. Our weekend ritual was washing and waxing the car together. Before we finished Sherm always said, “Don’t forget the glove compartment.” Of course, I never did.
In 1992 Sherm took early retirement from his job. “Let’s enjoy life, Nancy,” he said.
“I’d like to get that Super Sport fixed up,” he decided one day, and brought it to his friend Danny’s body shop. Even though we’d had other cars over the years, Sherm insisted on keeping the Super Sport.
Then Sherm got leukemia（白血病）. He fought hard, but died a year and a half later.
Little by little, I managed to sort through Sherm’s things. But I had yet to get to his car. Maybe it’s time to sell it, I thought. I called Danny and a few days later he had a buyer. I went to the shop to sign the papers. As I watched the car get loaded onto a flatbed truck, I suddenly heard the familiar words in my mind: Don’t forget the glove compartment.
“Wait!” I yelled to the driver. He backed the car down. I jumped into the passenger’s side and popped open the glove compartment. Inside was a Sunday school booklet, an envelope with my name on it stuck between the pages. I tore open the note. “Nancy, take the money you get from the car and do something nice for yourself,” Sherm wrote. “I love you.”
Sherm knew I wouldn’t forget the glove compartment. He also knew how much I would miss him, and wanted to remind me that life is meant to be enjoyed. I could start by calling my friends about that trip to the
