I've been hostile towards Valentine's Day since I went into puberty and realized how hard it was to get a guy to like me.
Earlier this week, I noticed a house on my block was for sale. Cecil and his wife bought the house when it was brand new in 1961, and raised their children there. Fifty years of happy memories. One of his kids loved this neighborhood so much he bought my house many years before I arrived on the scene, and started raising his kids across the street from their grandparents. I found handwritten letters in the attic that might have belonged to his kids, professing their undying devotion to a girl in the 5th grade.
Two years ago, after a long illness, Cecil's wife died. Cecil lost weight and became a little confused, but we always saw him on his daily walks down the street. He loved to visit with the neighbors on his walks, and the new families that moved into the neighborhood looked out for him.
One day, my neighbor told me that Cecil had moved into a nursing home. He was lost after the death of his wife, and his dementia had become bad enough that he couldn't take care of himself.
Three days ago, a "for sale" sign appeared on the front lawn of Cecil's house.
Today, Valentine's Day, I saw Cecil leave his house, and walk with his cane slowly down the street, just like he used to do. I didn't see a car, but someone must have dropped him off. Maybe he wanted to be in the home where he spent so many years with his sweetheart, and remember the Valentine's Days they spent together. Perhaps he was remembering when this neighborhood was the newest subdivision in Fort Worth, far beyond the city boundaries, where people used to hunt squirrels because they existed in the thousands, and couples came, bright eyed with the promise of the children to come.
Maybe he came to say goodbye, on this, the day where we celebrate love. Goodbye to the laughter of children playing in the street. Goodbye to his greatest love, his wife. Goodbye to the neighbors that would race over with casseroles anytime something bad happened.
Goodbye, Cecil. I'll miss you.
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