When my Grandma lay dying in hospice, and the sunlight poured through the windows, my Grandpa held her hand and sang this softly to her:
They’re together now, after almost eight years apart. One was one this side of the curtain, away from the mystery, and the other had already crossed into forever. I wonder what their reunion was like, was he dressed once again in his Army Air Corps uniform, the jacket cut trimly in olive drab? Was she wearing a dress that he loved and lots of red lipstick? Was her strawberry blonde hair up in victory rolls? Did they recognize each other right away? Or was there a pause after passing on the sidewalk, a moment of quiet, and then finally a joyful recognition. We can’t know that yet. I hope we get to find out someday.