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That's Life: Memorial Day RegretsBy Phyllis McGuire
iBerkshires Columnist
06:05PM / Tuesday, May 26, 2009
On Memorial Day, a friend I happened to meet was holding four red carnations.
"I planted flowers at the cemetery yesterday, and today I'll give a carnation to each of the veterans who live in my building," she said. Then she added that she hoped no one would misunderstand, thinking she wanted to capture the interest of any of the four veterans.
I told her I was glad she had not let that possibility prevent her from being so thoughtful.
There have been times in my life when I hesitated performing what others call an act of kindness, but which I think of as a purpose born in the heart.
Once, I rejected a lonely widower's invitation to dinner, because I feared people might "talk" about our being together. My fear was not unfounded as I had heard people gossiping about a widower and a single woman who simply exercised together, taking walks in the countryside.
Tongues wagged, too, when a married man and a married woman were seen in a hotel together, waiting to be seated in the dining room. Should the man and woman have worn a sign informing the public that their spouses, who graduated from the same high school, were to join them as soon as they returned from a class reunion event?
 I abhor gossiping, but occasionally at social events, I find it impossible to avoid people who seem to take pleasure in repeating what would best be kept to themselves, or embellishing the truth to make it scintillating.
I was a coward not to have dinner with the widower. He was a kind gentleman, and when his wife and my husband were alive, we all enjoyed each other's company. But I cannot undo the past, and I will never again have a chance to accept an invitation from him. He died in a veteran's home three years ago.
Memorial Day, when we honor those who served our country, I thought of him. In the future, I will do my best not to worry about what people might imagine.
 Since this year Memorial Day fell on my wedding anniversary, I found myself wishing I could correct any errors or omissions I committed as a wife.
After all, in the scheme of things, what did it matter that Bill did not call to tell me he would be late for dinner? When he forgot his key to the front door, was it really such a bother to open it for him?
If he failed to dry the dinner dishes, why did I not just thank him for everything else he had done to help me that day?
And why did I not tell him more often that I loved him? But, I should not torment myself. He knew I loved him and I knew he loved me.
And every time Bill gave me a rose, attended a wake in my stead, made a cup of tea for me, just because I looked tired, fetched my wristwatch when I unwittingly left it in the bathroom after taking a bath, it was an unspoken "I love you." |
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