Last year about this time, you wanted to give me a present.
I pushed your wheelchair to Macy’s.
We walked around and I choose a few things.
I really didn’t need anything, but I knew a gift was important to you.
Maybe you didn’t notice, but I paid for the items I liked and you approved.
One was a pair of very nice black mittens with fur around the cuffs.
I didn’t need mittens, but I liked these.
They were warm and lightweight.
They looked like “lady mittens” like everything else at Macy’s
In the intervening months I learned to love these mittens.
I choose them over the other black mittens I already owned.
They reminded me of you and wearing them made me feel special
It’s been a little over a year since you left.
Only now am I finding the strength to toss the sympathy cards.
Yesterday I changed the title of your car from you to me.
The day before I weeded the many many greeting cards you had sent
There were too many to keep, and most of them were simply signed, “Love, Don”
But in their number they shouted, “I love you!”
At your funeral, someone said, “No one will ever love you the way Don loved you.”
Upon reflection, the comment was very apt.
No one will ever love me the way you loved me.
Today I lost the mittens.
But it’s OK. Our love was special and cannot be duplicated.