Hello Its Me

Hello, It's Me

She lays there sleeping.

She's always been the one person you could count on to fall asleep once she sees her pillow. Purrs like a kitten, curled in a little ball, covers pulled to her chin.

I've loved this woman for over forty years.

Forty years filled with her art, her stained glass, her unlimited talents. I learned early it was best not to engage before the tea and prayers. She needed time to greet the day. An early riser, not uncommon for her to be up at 5 or 6 a.m.

Devout Catholic convert. Daily Mass when she can manage it. Three rosaries a day.

When I look at her, I still see the same nineteen-year-old girl I fell in love with. I can still picture her in that little navy suit with the pleated skirt and red hat she wore the day after our wedding. From wedding dress to red hat and blue dress, we opened our gifts together. I felt like the luckiest man in the world.

Who knew that day would be the first day of the rest of our lives. I am affected emotionally every time I look through the photo album on the end table in the living room.

The joy. The happiness. The good times we shared.

Countless.

The memories of time are everywhere — the lamps we picked out at that antique store, the couch we had reupholstered, the stained glass hanging in the window. The house lived and breathed our life together.

Just being able to walk through the house gives me the strength to get through another day.

I'll look around the bedroom tomorrow morning and another item, another art piece — her nightgown on the cedar chest — will put a smile on my face. Enough to get through another day.

Her commitment to me went unnoticed when we first met. I was young. I was busy living life. I didn't fully understand the gift standing right beside me.

Then one day I woke up.

And once I did, I never closed my eyes again.

When we moved into 61, we knew we weren't moving out.

Before that, our life was sporadic. Moving, changing, chasing whatever came next.

But after we got those keys, something changed.

It was time to build a family.

The quiet house we moved into didn't stay quiet for long.

Little feet running through the halls. Toys left where they shouldn't be. Voices filling every room.

That's when a house became a home.

I watched Patti evolve from wife to mother.

She was a natural.

She seemed to know what our children needed before they even knew themselves. Patience. Love. Understanding.

Then 61 became the place our kids brought their friends.

Patti always said, “I'd sooner have them in my basement than anywhere else.”

That was Patti.

She made room for people.

61 wasn't just a house to her. It was a canvas.

She painted banana leaves on the walls of the winding staircase. Rugs were positioned throughout the house over the hardwood floors — softening the noise and creating a warmer home.

Little art pieces were scattered everywhere, each one telling a story, each one another piece of Patti's heart.

The details were endless.

She didn't just decorate a house.

She created a home.

From a couple, to parents, to grandparents.

Somehow, we made that transition.

Playing in the pool with the grandchildren. Watching the newest Disney movies. Laughing at things only grandparents find funny.

Watching Patti evolve from mother to Nana was something truly special.

She never — I mean never — stopped becoming a better version of the best version of herself.

The house still has quiet times, but it holds the sounds of family.

The laughter.

The memories.

Birthdays. Easter. Christmas.

Still celebrated at the home where we raised our family for over forty years.

My daughters keep the load light. They show up. They clean. They prepare the house for every season.

Bales of hay and pumpkins. Corn stalks with mums in the fall.

Then the slow transition into a Christmas house.

The big real tree. Decorations going up two weeks early like always. Family crowding the living room. Eggnog all around.

Like nothing has changed.

Nothing has.

Not the parts that matter.

I know every chair she sits in.

I know which mug she reaches for without thinking.

I know the sound she makes when the tea is too hot and she won't admit it.

I even miss the little things I never thought I would notice.

Emptying the dishwasher before she could get to it.

Closing the drapes at night.

Making the bed while she was in the shower.

Funny how forty years works.

The things that once felt like routines become the things you treasure most.

They weren't chores.

They were pieces of a life we built together.

I lay here at her side.

We both knew there would come a day when we would be apart.

With my heart and our ten-year age difference, neither of us knew who would leave first.

I suppose somewhere inside, we both knew it was possible I would go first.

And I did.

But I am blessed.

Because I still get to watch her.

I watch her pray.

I watch her drink her tea and pet her kitty.

I watch her get dressed for church, gloves and all, even in June.

I watch her wait by the window, not knowing I'm still waiting too.

She has never stopped living.

She has never stopped loving.

And sometimes, when the night is quiet and she is dreaming, I whisper the same words I always have.

“Hello, it's me.”

She doesn't always hear me.

But I know she feels me.

Some nights her hand drifts to my side of the bed, the sheets long cold, and she pulls the blanket up anyway — the way she always did for me.

And when the time comes, when she finally closes her eyes for the last time, I'll be waiting.

Not because I'm waiting for her to leave.

Because I've been waiting all along.

To enjoy eternity together.