The table where I eat breakfast, lunch, and dinner each day is a fine piece of furniture. Made of pecan wood with wood-peg construction, it has four craftsman-style drop leaves, held in place by sliding wooden bolts under each leaf. It is one of my favorite pieces of furniture—but not only because of the features that attracted me to it when I bought it new 13 years ago.
It took two accidental scar-kisses upon that table to remind me daily of how blessed I have been in love.
On top of the leaf that faces me each morning at breakfast-time, a few inches from the edge on the left-hand side, is a thumbprint-sized scar in the finish of the wood.
It happened one day about six years ago while I was away from home for the four hours each week that I was “off-duty.”
My wife, Gail, had been disabled by her 2010 stroke and needed 24/7 care. She was paralyzed on her right side and could not speak, walk, or get up from a chair without help. She needed help dressing and bathing, along with all other primary needs, and I was the one who lovingly took on that care.
But once a week, to preserve my sanity, I hired an outside caregiver named Alejandra for a four-hour session so I could get out of the house to ride a bike, paddle a kayak, cast a fishing line, or just breathe free for a while in a shopping center or on a park bench.
Gail loved Alejandra, and on one of her visits, she sat with Gail at the wooden table and did her nails for her—a loving gesture that never would have occurred to me to do for her because…well, because I’m a guy.
But the next morning, as I set out Gail’s breakfast, I noticed that some nail polish remover had dripped on the table, stripping the finish away. Gail was devastated, but I assured her that I didn’t mind. We could always touch it up or refinish the table if we wanted to.
But that never happened. Five years ago, on Valentine’s Day in 2018, Gail suffered another massive stroke, one that took her life. It was the same day of the 17 horrific murders earlier that morning at Margery Douglas High School in Parkland, Florida. It also happened to be Ash Wednesday, a solemn reminder of human mortality.
For me today, five years after her death, that tiny blemish in the table’s finish is a thumbprint-sized kiss to remind me of the woman I have loved for most of my life, as well as a testament to the unpredictably and fragility of all of our lives.
I was devastated by her death, of course, but was later fortunate to meet an understanding lady who had lost her husband to cancer decades earlier after being his caregiver. She understood my grief as only someone who has lived it can, and she had even written a book about her own experience of losing a loving partner (“My Healing Heart: A Widow’s Story” by Carol J. Felvey, 2001.)
Carol and I fell in love, and after two years or so, she moved in to live with me.
Two years ago, as we prepared our first Thanksgiving meal together, Carol carried a hot pot of mashed potatoes to the table and set it on a kitchen towel as we gathered other delicacies to enjoy. But as we cleaned up after the meal, I noticed that the heat of the pot had faded the wood’s finish in a cloudy circle. Carol was devastated at her carelessness, but I assured her that I didn’t mind. We could always touch it up or refinish the table if we wanted to.
But that never happened. Six months ago, on Labor Day weekend in 2022, Carol also suffered a massive stoke, one that took her life. And today that cloudy circle in the finish of the wood is a softball-sized kiss to remind me of her.
I am alone without a Valentine to kiss this Valentine’s Day, for the first time in…well, I guess since I was a teenager. But “aloneness is different from loneliness,” as Illinois poet Gwendolyn Brooks reminds us, because I have those two loving scars—and many, many more—to keep me company and to remind me how lucky I have been in love.
Yes, Valentine’s Day is upon us once again. I hope you have a sweetie to hug and to kiss, but if not, I hope you have former sweeties to remember fondly. If you are alone, as I am, I hope you can find a way to embrace, rather than erase, the accidental sweetie-scars in your home and turn them into fond, treasured memories.
And if your sometimes-maddening Valentine is still with you, I hope you can look at their blunders and realize that if your sweetie were to be taken from you unexpectedly, the blemishes they leave behind might one day become accidental scar-kisses to remind you of how blessed you have been in love.
Either way, Happy Valentine’s Day to you.
TR Kerth is the author of the book “Revenge of the Sardines.” Contact him at trkerth@yahoo.com.
