Twenty years, red roses, love and remembrance

Red rose petals for my late husband Gary, 20 years after his death

Today marks 20 years since my first husband Gary died in Australia. Twenty years! A second, and a lifetime. As has become my tradition, I scattered petals from two red roses in remembrance of Gary, one rose from our son and one from me.

Today, for the third year in a row, the wind gusted off the North Sea. Instead of tossing rose petals into the air and having them float right back to me, I turned slightly inland and scattered them on a fern-y bush above the seafront, because Gary loved ferns.

Gary also loved the ocean. He loved scuba diving, especially shore dives at Shelly Beach, and communing with the undersea ‘creatures’ as he called them. He adored the beach, the sand, the sunshine, the warmth, and the feeing of lying back, closing his eyes, and letting his skin turn more golden than it normally was anyway. He loved sitting in one of our aluminium folding low-seat beach chairs and breathing the ocean-imbued air. He loved reading on the beach, playing Whiffleball with our son on the beach, building sand castles with both of his sons on the beach, and staying on the beach long after day-trippers had left, so we had what seemed miles and miles of nature and ocean and sea spray all to ourselves on long summer evenings. And now, our first grandchild together, on her first real foray into the ocean, seems to feel the same way. One of infinite, beautiful, painful reminders: life goes on.

Today, in what became the second part of my tradition after I met Clive, I brought red roses home for him. He’s had, and is having, a challenging time with his own health issues. Today we had a visit from one of the NHS angels who is helping him, and me. I gave her a rose, too, because we treasure her and her encouragements.

My beloved mother was right: I’ve been twice-blessed with the men in my life, my two brave warriors.

I’m thankful we can carry in our hearts our beloveds who no longer are physically with us. Their absence remains an eternal presence. We remember them.