Taking Gary’s hand, I wept, “I’ll raise the boys in a way that will make you proud. I’ll miss you.”
That day, Gary gave five people the gift of life.
After the funeral, despair engulfed me. But my sons needed me, so I forced myself to get up in the morning. I went through the motions at work. At home, I hid my tears every time I set the table for three instead of four.
The boys were suffering, too. Jerrod, fifteen, grew quiet, and Casey, eleven, lost his quick smile.
The only tiny solace was the hope that Gary had helped others. But I didn’t know who the recipients were, and I was afraid to find out.
Then, a few months later, I received a letter. “My name is Cindy Davis,” I read. “I’m your husband’s lung recipient. Thank you for giving me life…. I’ll always be grateful.” Oh, Gaiy! I wept. You did something wonderful!
I wrote back telling her I was glad she was feeling better. Then Cindy wrote again, asking about Gary. What was he like?
“Gary was a good father, a generous friend, and a loving husband,” I answered. “He loved to make me laugh, but he was romantic, too.”
Soon, we were corresponding, and sharing Cindy’s letters with the boys eased some of our pain.
Still, I cried every day. And on what would have been our fifteenth anniversary, I placed roses on Gary’s grave. Every year, he’d given me a bouquet of roses, but now all I had were memories. “I miss you!” I wept.
I went home, my grief nearly as raw as the day Gary died.
