My grandparents died within two weeks of each other. I paid little attention to their love until they were gone (or nearly). There was Gommie, leaning over Papa’s casket. Her hand touched his shirt. I could have sworn a small cry escaped her lips, but I’ll never know for sure. Her hunchback straightened so she could see in, taking in the view of her lifelong rock, solid as they come.
The leaves on her red-tinted floral dress seemed to curl up just right to balance her black heels and tan hose.
He would have thought her as beautiful as the day they married.
It was a quick elopement in the middle of a Missouri bone-chilling January. Their car had no heater and my grandmother wore open-toed shoes. Papa started work the next day. The minister and his wife were the only witnesses to the beginning of their union.
We think love needs heat, but the most enduring kind of love, which the Greeks called Pragma, grows strong, even in the dead of winter.
This kind of love stands up and stands in when heat and passion have died.
Stay. Persevere. Last.
Today I’m over at Jessica Galan’s blog sharing the rest of the love story…