A love story....

Once upon a time there was a man, we’ll call him John, who picked up his life in England and embarked on a new life in Bermuda. This was 1961 and he left behind the love of his life, not knowing if she would commit to the move herself. He was a teacher, a good one, and later became Headmaster of one of the local schools.
To put you out of your misery (being a love story and all) of course she joined him…and we’ll call her Jane.
They married, set up home, and raised two beautiful and wonderful children.
‘Jane’ was also a teacher and she was superb, one of the best loved teachers at the school.
In 1992 ‘Jane’ was diagnosed with cancer. She fought a long, hard battle and finally succumbed in August of 1993. It was devastating for all who had loved her. She was the organist at her church and on the day of her funeral even the organ didn’t want to work properly for the first time, and since.
Today we buried ‘John’. He tried, he struggled, his children tried to rally him, but in all honestly, he had never been the same since ‘Jane’s’ passing. After a few years of illness he has finally gone to the place he has wanted to be for fifteen years.
‘John’s’ daughter, my life-long beloved best friend, stood at the front of the church this afternoon and spoke about her father. Told us things we never knew for he was such a private man. Things I wish I had known. He was a writer, a poet, an artist. He kept this all between his beloved and himself.
A month before ‘Jane’ died in August 1993, ‘John’ wrote her a poem for her birthday. His daughter knew of the poem as it had been ‘Jane’s’ birthday gift, and a few years ago, when the children put ‘John’ into a nursing home due to failing health and sold the family home, she searched high and low for it.
This afternoon, in church, she read this poem. Not only as a testament to her parents’ love for each other, but also as an example of her father’s deep, artistic, passionate soul.

July 1993

‘Jane’, my love ----
After the winter
when the morning doves coo
I will remember.

Not that I could forget,
just that springtime will make you vivid.

We will recall
our youth, our unheeding.
We shall share memories as surely as
lovers separated only by earthly miles.

I cannot keep you
but commit these words to mind
and you can take them on your journey.

Isn’t it loss that wounds us most;
the sharp, the immediate,
the slow drip of years?

Yet your frailty will vanish in a trice,
the miracle of our prayers,
and it will be your radiant arms that
will, one day, welcome me home.

‘John’

I knew ‘John’ for almost my whole life and can honestly say that I wish I knew more of this side of him.
This is writing that would stand as amazing tribute to any man, to any love.
And ‘John’ is finally home in ‘Jane’s’ arms.