A few days ago, I was running errands when a woman I know came to mind.
I had a moment of panic. Then felt disgusted with myself.
You see, this woman used to write or call occasionally when I worked at the Record-Eagle, responding to a column or just wanting to offer her thoughts on a community issue.
Then when my daughter was a senior in high school and her choral ensemble was offering singing Valentines as a fundraiser, this woman called. She wanted to arrange a Valentine surprise for her husband of some 60 years, and I, as the mom in charge of scheduling, set it up.
It was a wonderful moment. Her husband was truly surprised. They held hands and kissed each other as the kids sang. All of us left with tears in our eyes. When he died a few months later, the memory became all the more meaningful.
After that, she and I kept in touch. We went out to eat. She took a special interest in my daughter, so when a few years later the kid was in a musical, I got an extra ticket, picked her up and we went together.
And always, always, every Valentine's Day after, I took her a rose to commemorate that last Valentine's Day with her husband and the memory we shared of that. I did the same thing for another older woman I came to know through my years at the Record-Eagle, who is also alone, missing her husband.
So there I am a few weeks ago, coming up for air after a particularly hectic month, and it hits me. I didn't go to her on Valentine's Day this year. I had completely missed it. At least I had called her sometime in January, just to catch up. But consumed as I was with everything else that was going on at the time, Valentine's Day blew right by me.
I vowed to get to the florist and pick up roses to take to both women in the next few days. Better late than never, right?
Not always. Because before I could, there she was, in the obituaries.
I was sick at heart. It was too late. I did think how, if things are the way we like to think they are after death, she'll spend Valentine's and every day from here on out with the love of her life. She missed him terribly. But as for Valentine's Day, this year, for her, I'd blown it. There was nothing to be done -- and never would be.
I do know one thing, though.
Next year, even though I can't take her a rose, I'll remember.
Kathy Gibbons can at gibbonskath@yahoo.com. For more of Kathy's columns, log on to record-eagle.com/kathygibbons.
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