Remembering
When Before Became After
Forty years ago this week, Martin and I were making plans.
Eight days later, before became after.
I’ve been thinking a lot about that this week—not so much about the accident that took him from us, but about the ordinary days that came before. The conversations. The hopes. The dreams. The day-to-day. The future we knew was ours.
A couple of weeks ago, I had Martin’s headstone restored. The inscription hadn’t disappeared. Time had made it hard to read.
Maybe that’s what forty years does.
Love doesn’t fade.
Memories don’t disappear.
Life simply layers itself over them.
Until something makes them visible again.
New chapters begin. Children grow up. Grandchildren arrive. Careers change.
Somehow . . . forty years pass.
Then—every once in a while—something makes the inscription clear again.
Last night, while walking Cupcake, an older gentleman stopped to tell me how cute my little dog was. We talked for twenty minutes. He had been born a year after my dad. He served in the Air Force during the Korean War—just like my dad. He had worked at Utah State, where my dad had earned his degree. He was born and raised on a Utah farm—just like my dad. He wore the same kind of blue plaid Western shirt my dad always wore. He even had a huge carved black bear on his front porch like the one in my dad’s front yard. This man was 95 years old. My dad—he’s been gone four years now—would have been 94.
I couldn’t wait to call my sister.
After I told her about this kind gentleman, she got quiet. When she finally spoke, she said, “I think that was Dad, Charlene. I think he knows how hard this summer has been, and since he can’t be here, he figured out how to offer some fatherly comfort.”
I don’t know exactly what happened on that evening walk.
I only know it felt like a gift.
Years ago, I told my sister about a dream in which I could hear my dad, my mom, and Martin talking. I ran from room to room—place to place—but I couldn’t find them.
She stopped me and said:
“They’re letting you know they love you, but it isn’t your time to follow them. It’s your time to continue living.”
I think about her words often.
Especially this week.
Forty years is a long time.
Long enough to know that grief and gratitude . . . love and loss . . . can live side by side.
Long enough to understand that we don’t leave the people we love behind.
We carry them with us.
Sometimes in stories.
Sometimes in a restored headstone.
Sometimes in a well-worn pocketknife or an old racing belt buckle.
And sometimes in the unexpected kindness of a stranger who reminds us that love has a remarkable way of finding us when we need it most.
As this anniversary approaches, I’m choosing to remember before.
Because before there was heartbreak . . .
there was love.
And after forty years . . .
Love is still here.
— Charlene