He stood behind her in the mirror and whispered, “You are beautiful.” She smiled and closed her eyes, remembering all the times he had said this to her before.
On their first date, forty years ago, when he arrived at her
door holding a dazzling bouquet of spring flowers.
Before he slid the simple gold band on her finger and said,
“I do.”
When they welcomed their son into the world, even though she
was tear-stained, exhausted and flecked with remnants of her own vomit.
As they began the long drive home after delivering their
only child to his new, adult life halfway across the country.
Before they went to sleep each night and first thing each
morning, his words, steady presence and love were with her, always.
He had said he loved her, that he would always love her, as
he lay in the hospital bed, morphine drip and cancer dulling the usual sparkle
in his eyes and slurring his words, but he didn’t really need to say them
anymore. She knew.
She opened her eyes, and he was gone, a hint of his cologne
and memories all that remained.
No comments:
Post a Comment