It was 7:45, Tuesday morning,July 26, 2016, when one of our daughters and I stood by as the spirit of Carol L. Watson, our daughters’ mother and my wife of nearly sixty years, quietly departed from her body. It’s a toss-up whether it was the cancer or the toxic chemicals injected into her body that killed her.
In the early afternoon it came down on me like a ton of bricks that I had failed in all those years to give to her an inward sense that she was cherished by me. I cried out, “Come back!” “Come back!” But she wasn’t coming back. I no longer had the opportunity to impart to her that assurance. It’s all over now.
I am writing this in the hopes that some husband may gain insight by my failure. It won’t take much. It was some decades ago, that I thanked her and told her how much I appreciated her washing my clothes and then ironing them, folding them and putting them in order in my dresser drawers or hanging them in the closet. This she did time and time again.
I realized years later, that she was still running on that same offering of thanksgiving. You won’t have to do anything extravagant, just get in front of her and tenderly wrap your arms around her and hold her. You might even whisper in her ear, how grateful you are that she married you. Then let her go on her way. Remember, this is all for her. There is to be nothing expected in return. Walk away.
Harold L. Watson