Once, during the year we lost our second baby, he brought me daisies. I cried when I saw them.
We were never apart.
He held me and said, “Even in the hard years, I’m here, my love.”
The flowers weren’t just about romance. They were proof that Robert always came back.
Through arguments about money. Through sleepless nights with sick children. Through the year my mother died and I couldn’t get out of bed for weeks.
He always came back with flowers.
Robert died in the fall. Heart attack. The doctor said he didn’t suffer. But I did.
The house felt too quiet without him. His slippers still sat by the bed. His coffee mug still hung on the hook in the kitchen.
He always came back with flowers.
I set two cups of tea out of habit every morning, then remembered he wasn’t there to drink his.
I talked to his photograph every day. “Good morning, darling. I miss you.”
Sometimes I told him about my day. About what our grandchildren were doing. About the leak in the kitchen sink I couldn’t fix.
Valentine’s Day arrived. The first one in 63 years without Robert.
I woke up that morning and just lay in bed for a while, staring at the ceiling.
