His story

There’s a lot of serendipity afloat at this end of our journey.

I get glints from the universe that all provide points of light from Burt’s life.

Or maybe, my experiences spur my memories.

Memories are giving me context to our history, mine and Burt’s.

I knew his background, I think, because Burt was always a story teller. In his illness, during most of the five years of dementia, he was famously a talker.

It was in the first 30 years of our marriage that I gathered so much of Burt’s history.

I heard stories of childhood [in Brooklyn] and youth [Brooklyn and the Catskills].

I knew his relatives though I rarely saw them. I knew his former wife and his children as they grew up. I met his dad even though he had died long before Burt and I met.

I was introduced to his career and the co-workers who disparaged or encouraged his success. He worked hard at his work and he loved it.

He spoke of the therapist he loved and admired; this is the man who advised him to go see The Music Man. I too was grateful for his contribution to Burt’s evolution.

Our life together, Burt’s and mine, centered heavily on our love of entertainments. The theater, jazz concerts, even opera were destinations. We enjoyed attendance at restaurants and ballet performances.

Like his maternal grandfather, Burt was a walker. He quoted a podiatrist who identified his feet as “your transport”. On our first date, Burt and I meandered for hours, walking from a meet on West 21st Street, over midtown. We stopped for dinner on 51st and 1st and proceeded up the avenue. Burt walked me home, all the way to 72nd at the East River.

That would soon be our home. We lived there until the summer of 2012. Our last years together were in this new building Burt picked for us. It was near yet so far from our first home.

Here, Burt made himself familiar and friendly. This last place we lived together was truly Burt’s home. I am so happy that he could breathe his last at home, a place of comfort and love.