Because you are so dear to me
I give you this little silver key.
Because you are the one I love best
you'll find a lock for this key on your cedar chest.
John A. Bayerl, December 25, 1962
As I was looking for a sweater the other day I came across this little bit of rhyming poetry in an envelope in the cedar chest that has been with Gwen and me since Christmas, the year before we married. Since that time I've written poetry that has more depth, but never have I approached the heartfelt meaning that was contained in those four simple lines. The engagement ring would come two months later, but the cedar chest sealed the deal, no doubt about it.
The cedar chest, by Lane, is a lovely piece of furniture, still in excellent condition and smelling of cedar all these years later. It has kept many a moth out of our wool clothing--moths were Gwen's mortal enemies. Even in the summer when moths would gather around the porch light she would be busy shooing them out and telling me to keep the door closed so they wouldn't get in the house and chew holes in our sweaters and such..
Among the treasured things we stored in the cedar chest was a wool, plaid Pendleton shirt that Gwen bought for me when we lived in Oregon. It was always a favorite item of clothing, and when I wore holes in the elbows I remember how Gwen lovingly fixed them with faux suede patches. Today I wore the shirt, and my heart clutched as I had a vivid memory of Gwen sitting in a rocking chair sewing those patches on the elbows. Grief is famous for that; just when I think things are kind of under control something like that happens, and I'm right back where I started. Of course, I want to be able to say that I am moving on, but it isn't that simple. I suppose that there are those who might consider being reduced to a blubbering fool at the memory of patches being sewn on a shirt a step backward. To me, it isn't. These are wonderful memories, and they are helping to fill the giant hole left in my life by the death of my soulmate just as surely as are the many diversions I try to fill my life with each day--writing this being just one of them.
A week from this Sunday it will be 15 months since Gwen died. In a way, that's a long time, but, when compared to the nearly fifty years that Gwen and I shared a love that brought us together and then sustained us, it is merely a heartbeat . I'm reminded of a line in that hymn I love, "life is but a breath, we flower and we fade." My friend, Ginette, who also lost the love of her life, says it well: the process of grieving is a time for re-membering the one we loved so dearly. As the days go by, I ever so slowly incorporate Gwen back into a life that she really never left.
Surprising you wasn't easy, Dear, but you had no idea that you were getting that cedar chest. How could I ever forget the hug and kiss you gave me, even though your whole family was watching. Now, all these years later, it has become even more precious. It was sometimes a struggle getting it into a packed car as we moved from location to location, but somehow it added continuity to our life then, even as it does now.
I give you this little silver key.
Because you are the one I love best
you'll find a lock for this key on your cedar chest.
John A. Bayerl, December 25, 1962
As I was looking for a sweater the other day I came across this little bit of rhyming poetry in an envelope in the cedar chest that has been with Gwen and me since Christmas, the year before we married. Since that time I've written poetry that has more depth, but never have I approached the heartfelt meaning that was contained in those four simple lines. The engagement ring would come two months later, but the cedar chest sealed the deal, no doubt about it.
The cedar chest, by Lane, is a lovely piece of furniture, still in excellent condition and smelling of cedar all these years later. It has kept many a moth out of our wool clothing--moths were Gwen's mortal enemies. Even in the summer when moths would gather around the porch light she would be busy shooing them out and telling me to keep the door closed so they wouldn't get in the house and chew holes in our sweaters and such..
Among the treasured things we stored in the cedar chest was a wool, plaid Pendleton shirt that Gwen bought for me when we lived in Oregon. It was always a favorite item of clothing, and when I wore holes in the elbows I remember how Gwen lovingly fixed them with faux suede patches. Today I wore the shirt, and my heart clutched as I had a vivid memory of Gwen sitting in a rocking chair sewing those patches on the elbows. Grief is famous for that; just when I think things are kind of under control something like that happens, and I'm right back where I started. Of course, I want to be able to say that I am moving on, but it isn't that simple. I suppose that there are those who might consider being reduced to a blubbering fool at the memory of patches being sewn on a shirt a step backward. To me, it isn't. These are wonderful memories, and they are helping to fill the giant hole left in my life by the death of my soulmate just as surely as are the many diversions I try to fill my life with each day--writing this being just one of them.
A week from this Sunday it will be 15 months since Gwen died. In a way, that's a long time, but, when compared to the nearly fifty years that Gwen and I shared a love that brought us together and then sustained us, it is merely a heartbeat . I'm reminded of a line in that hymn I love, "life is but a breath, we flower and we fade." My friend, Ginette, who also lost the love of her life, says it well: the process of grieving is a time for re-membering the one we loved so dearly. As the days go by, I ever so slowly incorporate Gwen back into a life that she really never left.
Surprising you wasn't easy, Dear, but you had no idea that you were getting that cedar chest. How could I ever forget the hug and kiss you gave me, even though your whole family was watching. Now, all these years later, it has become even more precious. It was sometimes a struggle getting it into a packed car as we moved from location to location, but somehow it added continuity to our life then, even as it does now.
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