While at a recent literary event, a natty, elderly gentleman with a smile as wide as the Mississippi handed me my memoir to sign. He told me his name was Herbert.*
As I wrote, he spoke softly into my ear so no one else could hear.
“I agree with what you said. Love—it really does transcend death. I was married 59 years when my beloved passed on. That was a little over two years ago. About six months after she died, I was making up the bed when I saw her standing in the bathroom. I’d forgotten how petite she was, but I’d never forgotten her beauty. She looked just like she did when we courted.”
I stopped writing and looked up at him. He placed his withered hand on my shoulder and gestured for me to keep looking at the book.
He continued, “Perhaps she stood there for 30 seconds or maybe a minute. But what she conveyed to me in that short time—the thoughts and feelings she put in my head—would take hours for me to tell you. She let me know she was content and well. She filled me with the love she had for me. She said there was nothing to fear on the Other Side and that she would be waiting for me when my time came. Then, she let me know it was time for me to move forward. She helped me so much. I needed to know she was okay and that she still loved me. And she made those points abundantly clear.”
I closed the book and looked into his misty eyes. “Thank you so much for sharing,” I said. I gave him a hug in return for his gift of sharing his special experience with me.
*Not his real name.