(found laminated and taped to the fourth gravestone from the left in the fifth row from the front)
I didn’t think it was possible, not when I met you, not when you got into my car that first time, not even when we got married. Lydia, I always wanted it to be, but I didn’t think it could be possible.
I am so lucky, Lydia, because I never had to look. One day I just opened my eyes, and I found you.
It was just when you were pulling away from my face when I thought about it for the first time. You clenched you lower lip in between your teeth and you looked down. You might not remember, Lydia, but you looked so shy, so cute. And I just couldn’t stop staring at you. I just couldn’t stop thinking about how I wanted to spend the rest of my life standing next to you. There was just a feeling, oh, such a feeling. And I wanted it to last forever.
Time passed, as it always does, but something was different – not that I have that much else to compare these last sixty-seven years with – but something was definitely different. We grew young then old, supple then wrinkled, strong then weak. But I never stopped seeing that smile on your face. And I never stopped feeling that feeling.
I can’t believe that you stayed around. I didn’t think that it would be possible to stick together so long – not for us, not for anyone. We must have been proof of something, Lydia. We must have been proof of something really great about human beings and what they can do.
I’m writing you because I just want to make sure, one last time. You knew it though. I know you knew it because I always told you, and I always meant it. But Lydia, now that you’re gone, I have to keep telling you. I have to keep telling you.
I realized something. I realized it the moment I first saw you. I realized something so profound in that moment that everything I’ve seen and everything I’ve heard and everything I’ve thought about since then seems dull and bland and boring.
I love you. I love you, Lydia. Lydia, I love you.
And I still do, but now I miss you too.