At 83 years old, four months after my husband’s death, I thought I had experienced all possible forms of love. But certain gestures, repeated throughout a lifetime, continue to flourish long after the absence.
My name is Camille. I am 83 years old and have been a widow for four months.
In 1962, on Valentine’s Day, Jean proposed to me in the small kitchen of our student residence. He had prepared overcooked spaghetti, burnt garlic bread on one side, and offered me a small bouquet of roses wrapped in newspaper.
From that day on, every February 14, he gave me flowers.
Sometimes wildflowers picked by the side of the road when we didn’t have a penny. Sometimes elegant roses, when life was sweeter. One particularly difficult year, he brought me daisies and simply whispered to me, “Even in storms, I’m here.”
The flowers were his way of telling me that he always came back.
The first February 14 without him
Jean died in the autumn of a heart attack. I was told that he had not suffered.
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