53.8

This is 2020 and bad things have happened all over the world. This week, the worst happened for our family. My husband of 53.8 years passed away after several years of illness. I say 53.8 years instead of 53 or 54 years because, for me, it was important to make every minute count. Maybe I should extend the decimals out to 53.812. Of that number, 53.7 were good!


Let me tell you a bit about him, rather than what he did in his life, because when we wed, I married the man, not his career. He was kind and generous and respectful of other people. He loved flowers and we have a yard full of roses because he said that flowers are the sign of a civilized society and it was important to be civilized. He loved to dance and could do the soft shoe, jitterbug, or Charleston and even won dance contests. He loved to sing and made up songs for his granddaughter, which she rolls her eyes at, but she’ll figure it out someday. On the other hand, I can’t sing a note, but he kindly said that I have a song in my heart and warned me to keep that bugger there, don’t ever let it out. He loved to tell jokes…did you hear the one about... Yes, I did exactly 636 times, but he made me laugh anyway. He had a special tug in his heart for children. When we ate out, he always found some little three-year-old in nearby booth to play eye games with. He loved his dogs…Harry, Toulouse LaTrec, Clegg, Lawyer, Murphy, and, of course, Wag, as well as the grand-dogs, except for FiFi and FooFoo and nobody likes them.


The 53.8 years passed in a flash, but I cherish every moment (except those times he filled my sink with smelly trout). We were fortunate in many ways, but mostly because we loved and respected each other. Our lives would have been much different if we hadn’t. He is now at peace and so am I.