I bought a pretty Valentine and flowers last Friday. Fellow-resident Eileen sneaked them to my apartment and friend Bob found me a vase. I’m a klutzy flower arranger, but the bouquet turned out nicely. That evening I gave it to the girl in 313.
I’ll be upfront: If love were wine, I’d be a sot; and don’t snicker, you kids of 60. Your day is coming and then you’ll understand.
As age sneaks up, some things drift off, never more to return. But one thing hides, waiting a chance to jump out and yell boo! I vaguely remember puppy love and sad teenage heartbreaks; but I shall never forget the old-codger love that consumed me one happy day.
Seven years ago my bride of 66 years ran off with another man, Jesus, and I tucked away romantic love with memorabilia of our years. How it escaped to find me again is a long and tangled story. Days were tolerable those first weeks alone, sometimes fun, but evenings grew ever more lonely. I have no TV—don’t want one. Music and books carry one just so far. Then a hunger stirs for someone to talk to, to laugh and cry with, maybe someone to love.
Someday I’ll tell you how I met that girl in 313; a more unlikely story you’ve never read. For now I’ll just say, Happy Valentine’s Day dear Norma. I love you.
Old Grandpa Lloyd