The sunlight of his face I. A grin, a kiss hello, brown eyes twinkling his arm around your shoulders his hand reaching out for yours Wrapping his kindness around you like a quilt on a cold, cold night Shug, he’d say, everything’s okay Shug, think about it this way — Clearing away upset, soothing the way to calm, he’d say Now Shug — Tending to you with morning coffee Saturday lunches carried to your office that first supper on the Parkway Sprinkling love notes throughout the house tucking words of love into the drawer of silverware the frying pan, your suitcase, your car seat under your bed pillow Tending to your living space taking newspapers to the trash, dishes to the sink plumping sofa pillows making clean room for being II. His proposal, a picnic by the Parkway — He dared you, and you did swing out into space on a kudzu vine I guess I passed the test, you said. You passed the test a long time ago, he said. The two of you, always on the move through Germany, Austria, Switzerland arriving at night to the inn at the foot of the Alps waking to his lifting the blind to showcase the sun coming up over the Eiger through National Parks wading Zion’s hip-high rivers walking among ancient petroglyphs, ages-old swirls of sandstone across America on Highway 2 taking 12 days, Seattle – Bar Harbor (salmon to lobster) no news except your news driving through Glacier on highway Going-to-the-Sun, Montana mountain goats staring roadside Montana’s open sky endless blue, no clouds, no storms mountain ridges, distant yellow aspen, fresh and clear yes, the sense of him III. He’s still smiling that contagious smile when you burn the bacon drop a bowl of spaghetti as he listens to what’s new with children, grandchildren, your work He’s content to tell you, daily news of the peaceful place he’s come to his presence energy smoothly spreading through your body lifting you above the everyday above the curve of earth into the sunlight of his face He’s saying, with a grin My love for you is forever plus one. I love you till the numbers end. And Shug — they never do.
— by Lisa Sarasohn (based on notes by and conversations with his widow)