There’s a story I’ve tried to tell but never finished. It isn’t mine. It belongs to John and Irene.
They met on a dance floor in 1948. He was a 28-year-old, never married bachelor from a small town 18 miles away. She was a 29-year-old widow with a 10-year-old son living with her parents in the house with the family she’d lied to get away from. After four years of Wednesday and Saturday night waltzes, they married and began the journey of life and love together that lasted 43 years. A heart attack took her almost 20 years ago. He lives on in a wasted shell of a body with legs that no longer hold him up without help and fading memories that occasionally include her.
I am the product of their love. Happy 63rd anniversary, John and Irene. One day may you waltz together again.