LeeAnne Dalton linked to this poem and called it a favorite, and now it’s one of mine, too. Especially right now.
My Uncle Wally, twice widowed himself, fell hard for a widow who, when the family met Marie, thoroughly understood why and welcomed her as their own.
There was her house, there was his house, and they decided to sell them both, marry, and buy a new one together where all the memories would be the ones they made, just theirs.
Hers found a buyer.
His sat on the market. And sat.
His baby brother, whose start-up company had done very well, finally told them, Listen, *I’ll* buy your house–enough of this, go get married, you crazy kids! (The oldest brother being 80 at the time.)
This wasn’t my idea, it was hers but it’s a great one that I want to pass on: I recently texted my cousin a short note that I was about to call for her dad, and then rang her phone. Alerted by that text, she let it go to voicemail so that she could then play the recording for him when she visited and let Wally know that he is thought of, remembered in our day-to-day lives wherever we are, and loved.
Now he really needs that. Marie, artist, composer, and the love of his old age these sixteen or seventeen years or so, quietly slipped away yesterday. She came to “the gate opening like a secret” and I wonder how long now till his hand reaches out towards hers.