An older man showed up at my back door, crying. It was the fiftieth anniversary of his marriage, and his wife had passed away last December. 

 

"I don't want to bother you, but I would just like to sit in the Cathedral for a minute, and think of her." 

 

I drove him over, while he told me how much harder it is than he expected. He had crafted his whole world around her, and now she was gone. It was a bigger loss than if he had gone blind, or deaf. As it was, he could neither hear nor see the one person he wanted. 

 

We sat in the dark nave, and I asked about the wedding. 

 

"People said we practically ran back down the aisle, we were so excited. She was beautiful."

 

He showed me a few pictures on his phone. 

 

"She loved babies, and collected rocking chairs so she could rock them."

 

They had been blessed with a bouquet of children, including twins that went to heaven before she had much chance to hug them. 

 

"I bet she is holding babies now," I said. He smiled. 

 

"I wanted her to live the life she chose, whatever she wanted. And she loved children. Being a mother made her so happy." 

 

He nodded, remembering.

 

"For a few years, she taught children with autism. They all felt safe with her."

 

Fifty years is a long time to walk this earth, hand in hand. Letting go leaves a vacuum that doesn't subside easily. 

 

"She was innocent, and not everyone understood her. But I did. From the first time I saw her in statistics class. It was kind of a fluke that we were both in the same place. But really it was providence."

 

 

"The two are still not separated, after the death of the one, since the spirit of the deceased dwells continually with the spirit of the one not yet deceased, and this even until the death of the other, when they meet again, and reunite themselves, and love each other more tenderly than before." Marriage Love 321, Emanuel Swedenborg