I see trees of green, red roses too.
I see them bloom, for me and you.
And I think to myself... what a wonderful world.
I see skies of blue, and clouds of white.
The bright blessed day, the dark sacred night
And I think to myself, what a wonderful world...
The love of my life died… a week later.
And I love her still…
She made me promise that I’d stay happy, and find love again. That’s the only promise I’ve ever broken in my life.
I look at the silver ring on my little finger – the piggy that went “wee wee wee” – and stroke the warm metal, something that’s become a habit. It was her ring, the one that she gave me before she died.
“I want you to wear this to remember me by… “ she had said, gently placing the strip of silver onto my little finger (the only one that the ring would fit on).
On a day like this, the anniversary of the day she died, I tend to wander out of my house and think of long ago, when there was a boy. Long ago, when there was the girl who lived in a yellow house around the corner.
Long ago, when they were in love.
… but those days are gone.
On days like this, when the wind is cold and the sky is watery grey, and the world is quiet, I like to sit on the park bench with peeling red paint – her bench, our bench.
And then, all I can do is walk to the cemetery where she lies buried, along with a piece of my heart. A piece that was buried along with the love of my life, on that fateful day, twelve years ago. A piece that lies beneath the marble tombstone, carved in the shape of a magnolia.
The tombstone is inscribed with the a little verse that she wrote:
Shirley (1972 – 1997)
I might not be with you,
lying deep in nature’s womb,
but think of me and smile,
whenever the magnolias bloom.