Yesterday was my late husband Jerry’s 76th birthday. He died in 2002, at the age of 59. Imagining him at seventy six seems unfathomable. I’d tease him about being an old man, although I’m sure he’d have kept his exercise up and wouldn’t look his age. I’d have gotten him a funny card, an appreciative card, a loving card. He always got me deeply romantic birthday cards, rather unlike the matter-of-fact way he was day to day. I’d have made his favorite dessert: home made lemon meringue pie, extra tart, with graham cracker crust. I’d likely have gotten him something for his bike as a birthday gift. We’d have gone out to dinner, and maybe for a long walk.
I had Archie on Friday night for a sleepover. I will always be sad that Jerry never got to be grandfather; he would have been great. As his brother Paul said, there would have been all kinds of giggling and chuckling between Grandpa Jerry and Archie and Else.
We get the life we get. Some people are blessed with what seems like endless days. Some get a breath or two, hardly any life at all. Jerry fell in between, not nearly enough time for such a good and decent man.