In the fuzzy edge of my memory, where oft-told stories now ingrained co-mingle with true recollections, I see them there. In the chairs. They didn't LIVE there, like so many immobile couples, but they retired there each evening, to review the day's happenings, entertain whichever fortunate family member happened by, or just to hold hands and visit. The chairs sat as thrones for an everyman king and queen. I remember still the first time I sat in HIS chair; it felt so big and comfortable, as if it would completely envelope the small boy who deigned to take upon him that seat . But the envelopment was not one of fear, but one of love. It was as if the love my grandfather oozed every day of his life had somehow been transferred into that old chair, and then to me as my body sat where he had rested and my mind played over what I imagined were his thoughts. My curious hands couldn't help but touch his assorted necessities of life on the shelves next to the chair. A pipe, some tobacco, an ash tray, the obligatory assortment of pocket knives and the cornucopia of prizes bequeathed to and from the treasured grandchildren, one of whom I was so very happy to be.
He loved me- this I never doubted. Whether it was his incredible patience as I putzed around his workshop, or the truly admiring glances he shot my way as I out shot the relatives -even him sometimes- on the rifle, or just the stories he would tell- just to me, as if I were the only one who would ever hear or ever care to hear. He loved me. I know that, and I treasure that knowledge. But just as I know he loved me, I know that, with a depth I do not know, he loved her. Oh how he loved her.
They were together more than 60 years. How many evenings were spent in those chairs?! Reaching out- holding hands- but more importantly, reaching out emotionally. He would tell one of his stories- oh he was a story teller. She, his rudder in so many things, would remind him who he was. "Amos, you're not as funny as you think you are." Yet the loving twinkle in her eye shone through with a light only 60 plus years can produce. He'd throw his head back and laugh- that silent laugh we all adored- head back, mouth agape, and no sound whatsoever. He loved to laugh. And she with him- but hers were always closed mouthed, and a bit shorter- more proper for a southern grandma. That IS how it should be, after all. Then the warning, "Amos....." And his eyes would reciprocate the twinkle.
Today, though, tears etch grooves on his marble face. No head back in silent laughter. A different silence fills the air and acts to suck it from the room. No twinkling eyes and soft edicts. No stories told and stretched and re-stretched into the funniest and tallest of tales. Today, she is gone. He reaches to her chair as he has so very many times before, but his companion cannot reach back, cannot issue her warnings. We hear no "Amos..." She cannot touch his hand or call his name now. The sweet silent laugh is replaced by sad silent tears. Her chair is empty.
But there is hope, for their souls are united, and deep, deep in his heart, he can still hear her call, feel her touch, and know that their love still burns. Her chair is empty, but their hearts are full.
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