It’s actually the end of a story … the end of a love story. Or is it? Does a love story ever really end? My beloved husband, Cedric Pierre Marie, died on Monday, February 1, 2021. He was 90 years old and we were married for 42 years. All of my (three) readers know this but I wanted to update my blog for posterity. He died at our home in Atlanta, Georgia, where I took care of him on home hospice for four months. I won’t sugarcoat it – it wasn’t easy for either of us, but we had plenty of time to prepare and say goodbye. Of course, you can never really be prepared but the time together gave us the opportunity to watch the sunset, look at photos, listen to our favorite music and tell each other how much we loved each other.
I miss him more than words can describe. It’s the little things: The way I used to kick the New York Times inside the door when I took Savannah out and when I came back if the paper was not on the hallway floor, I knew he was up. Or he would turn off the porch light. And I would sing, to the tune of Johnny Cash’s hit, “I saw the sign, I saw the sign.” And we would laugh. And we would laugh, and we would laugh.
We laughed a lot over the last four months. No one can take that away from me.
Yes, I will miss him – his deep voice; his sparkling blue eyes; the crossword puzzles he designed just for me; his wicked sense of humor; the way he loved me more than I could ever have imagined being loved, and probably more than I deserved; his sense of dress; his fun spectacle frames; his loud wrist watches.
But we will be together again one day. We will dance and laugh and the love story will continue. Does a love story ever really end? No, it’s just moves to the next chapter of the story.
I love you, darling. Wait for me.