Midwest Mary

He Squeezed My Hand

He made me laugh
with funny antics and silly jokes
Sometimes I wanted him to be serious
Now, I miss the laughter.

Tall, handsome, charismatic
He treated everyone as a friend.
People surrounded him
wanted to know him, be near him.

Even his “compliments” were funny.
“Your fat butt looks good in those jeans.”
“What perfume are you wearing, Raid?”
“You think you’re smart but you married me”

And then there was the magic–
multiplying bunnies, vanishing cards,
and me in a box full of blades
or the little house with swords.

Neither of us liked to argue or be angry
We found joy throughout our days together
traveling, walking, watching TV, and time with friends.
Our home overflowed with love, people, and food.

Then came the disease that ate his brain,
robbed loving, playful memories of our past,
and the recognition of common pleasures
familiar places, foods, our home, our family.

Why did he have to get sick?
Why did I have to watch him
leave me little by little,
day after day
for 15 years?

He’d forget we were married–
but he never forgot he loved me.
Every day he’d ask if I would marry him
He always said I was the love of his life.

And in his final days
when he lay so still in bed
few words were said
except to call me, “My Mary.”

In the very end, I held his hand
and listened to his fading breaths
until he gave my hand a squeeze
and his soul drifted away.

Photo curtesy of Susan Holstein, 12/31/1998

©Mary K. Doyle, 2025