It’s New Year’s Eve. I was passing through our living room and stopped for a moment, as I often do, and gazed at the display of our long life of love together.
There on the wall is the beautiful portrait of my beautiful wife on the occasion of our 50th Anniversary, the photo taken by our daughter just over a year ago.
We are standing, once again, at the door of a little green bug, the gift from our children in celebration of a half-century of love and laughter.
A long time ago, but of course it always seems like just yesterday, we had left on our honeymoon in a little green bug. What adventures we had in that whimsical beep-beep.
And now, with this gift from the kids, we had that opportunity again.
To the ocean we went, its vastness, its pounding surf, its formidable power very much needed to quiet our soul. As the waves broke upon the beach, so our hearts were breaking, but as the sea then ebbed and slipped away, our grasp refused to do the same, our fingers intertwined, refusing to let go.
Later she would take the pebbles she had collected and shape them into a heart into which we placed our hands, our fingers laced, reluctant to let go.
We needed that time. We needed that place. We needed one another. Just once more.
Just one more time.
She was dying from cancer.
Now, on this New Year’s Eve, as I passed this display of our long life of love and laughter, sometimes tears and sorrow, I noticed on our model of the little green bug the passenger side door was open.
She’s gone.
What a ride we had.
