My grandfather showed his love through simple, steady actions. Every Saturday morning for fifty-seven years, he brought my grandmother a fresh bouquet of flowers. Sometimes they were roses from the florist, other times wildflowers from the roadside, but they always waited in a vase on the kitchen table when she woke.
He once told me that love was not just something you feel, but something you practice every day. Their relationship wasn’t loud or dramatic; it lived in quiet gestures, shared routines, and a deep sense of devotion. When my grandfather passed away after a long illness, the house felt unbearably still.
The following Saturday, my grandmother sat at the kitchen table staring at the empty vase, missing not only the flowers, but the man behind them.
Continue reading…
