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  • My first love, Frank, was older than me by 10 years. He had an air of knowledge and intelligence about him, and he was so dashing with his olive complexion and black hair. We met in April 1995, he proposed that August and we got married in June 1996.

    About five years into our relationship we had a conversation where we made a pact to grow old together while living in a cabin in the woods, rocking our chairs in synch with each other on the porch – because you have to have a porch you know, with a cabin.

    Frank died at age 57, on February 28, 2010, of kidney cancer.

    While unconscious in his hospice bed a few days before he died, I was holding Frank’s hand and quietly reminiscing about our various trips and life experiences; my attempt at calming him as he was nearing the end of his life.

    Suddenly, I was hit with the realization that we wouldn’t grow old together after all.

    I asked him quietly, almost in a whisper “Who am I to grow old with now? Who will sit in a rocking chair with me and hold my hand? We promised each other we’d be there together all the way to the end.”

    Then I felt him squeeze my hand, ever so gently. His way I believe, of telling me that I’d be okay.

    And I am.
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