Seventy-two years. It sounds impossible when you say it out loud, like a story someone else lived. But it was ours.
That is what I kept thinking as I watched his casket, hands folded tight in my lap.
It’s just that you spend that many birthdays and winters and ordinary Tuesdays with a person, you start to believe you know the sound of every sigh, every footstep, and every silence.
It sounds impossible when you say it out loud.
I knew how Walter liked his coffee, how he checked the back door twice every night, and how he folded his church coat over the same chair every Sunday. I thought I knew every part of him worth knowing.
But love has a way of putting things away carefully, sometimes so carefully you only find them when it is too late.
***
The funeral was small, just how Walter would have wanted it. A few neighbors offered soft condolences. Our daughter, Ruth, dabbed at her eyes, pretending no one noticed.
I nudged her, whispering, “You’ll ruin your makeup, love.”
I thought I knew every part of him worth knowing.
She sniffled. “Sorry, Mama. He’d tease me if he saw.”
Across the aisle, my grandson, Toby, stood stiff in his polished shoes, trying hard to look older than he was.
“You okay, Grandma?” he asked. “Do you need anything?”
“Been through worse, honey,” I said, trying to smile for his sake. “Your grandfather hated all this stuff.”
He grinned a little, glancing down at his shoes. “He’d tell me they’re too shiny.”
“Mm, he would,” I said, my voice warming.
I looked toward the altar, thinking of how he’d make two cups of coffee every morning, even if I was still in bed. He never learned to make just one.
“Your grandfather hated all this stuff.”
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