Something to think about... maybe.
I saved this from some website. Copied and pasted it into a Word document. Well, I
was doing some desktop spring cleaning and discovered it again.
Just puts a different perspective on things. And if it speaks to anyone in some special
way, well - good.
I believe Anne Roiphe is an author.
"Anne Roiphe: My Late Husband's Words
It was mid-December of 2005. I don't know why he said it. I don't know if a shadow had
fallen across him, something appalling he saw out of the corner of his eye. I don't know if it
was just coincidence or intuition that prompted him, but about a week before my seemingly
healthy 82-year-old husband suddenly died, he emerged from the kitchen ready to go to
his office, his face clean-shaven, his eyes shining, smiling shyly, holding the copy of the
Anthony Trollope book he was rereading, and said to me, "You have made me very happy.
You know that you have made me a happy man." There I stood in my work outfit, blue jeans
and a T-shirt. There I stood with my white hair and my wrinkles and the face I was born
with, although now much creased by time, and I felt beautiful.
"What?" I said. I wanted him to repeat the words. "You heard me," he said and put on his
coat and drew his earmuffs out of his pocket. "Say it again," I said. He said it again. "You've
made me happy." We had been married 39 years. We had held hands waiting in hospital
corridors while a desperately ill child struggled to breathe and thankfully recovered. We had
made financial mistakes together. We had spent hours out in fishing boats. We had raised
the children and then second-guessed our choices. We had stood shoulder to shoulder at
graduations and weddings and we were well-worn, but still I had made him happy, and I was
proud and flushed with the warmth of his words.
I know I looked beautiful that morning. Perhaps not to the young man holding his toddler in
his arms who rode the elevator with me; perhaps not to the friend I met for lunch, a true
believer in Botox; perhaps not to passersby on the street; but I knew it for a certainty. I
was beautiful.
I don't believe that inner beauty is sufficient in this cruel world. That's the pap one tells a
child. I don't believe that positive thinking improves your skin tone or that loving or being
loved changes the shape of your nose or restores the thickness and color of hair, but I do
know that there is a way of being beautiful, even as age takes its toll, that has something
to do with the spirit filling with joy, something to do with the union with another human
being, with the sense of having done well at something enormously important, like making
happy a man who has made you happy often enough.
Ten days after that morning conversation, my husband and I returned from a concert and
dinner with friends and walked down our windy block toward our apartment house when
suddenly he stumbled and fell and died within minutes. As I waited for the ambulance, I
remembered his words, a beauty potion I would take with me into the rest of my life."
was doing some desktop spring cleaning and discovered it again.
Just puts a different perspective on things. And if it speaks to anyone in some special
way, well - good.
I believe Anne Roiphe is an author.
"Anne Roiphe: My Late Husband's Words
It was mid-December of 2005. I don't know why he said it. I don't know if a shadow had
fallen across him, something appalling he saw out of the corner of his eye. I don't know if it
was just coincidence or intuition that prompted him, but about a week before my seemingly
healthy 82-year-old husband suddenly died, he emerged from the kitchen ready to go to
his office, his face clean-shaven, his eyes shining, smiling shyly, holding the copy of the
Anthony Trollope book he was rereading, and said to me, "You have made me very happy.
You know that you have made me a happy man." There I stood in my work outfit, blue jeans
and a T-shirt. There I stood with my white hair and my wrinkles and the face I was born
with, although now much creased by time, and I felt beautiful.
"What?" I said. I wanted him to repeat the words. "You heard me," he said and put on his
coat and drew his earmuffs out of his pocket. "Say it again," I said. He said it again. "You've
made me happy." We had been married 39 years. We had held hands waiting in hospital
corridors while a desperately ill child struggled to breathe and thankfully recovered. We had
made financial mistakes together. We had spent hours out in fishing boats. We had raised
the children and then second-guessed our choices. We had stood shoulder to shoulder at
graduations and weddings and we were well-worn, but still I had made him happy, and I was
proud and flushed with the warmth of his words.
I know I looked beautiful that morning. Perhaps not to the young man holding his toddler in
his arms who rode the elevator with me; perhaps not to the friend I met for lunch, a true
believer in Botox; perhaps not to passersby on the street; but I knew it for a certainty. I
was beautiful.
I don't believe that inner beauty is sufficient in this cruel world. That's the pap one tells a
child. I don't believe that positive thinking improves your skin tone or that loving or being
loved changes the shape of your nose or restores the thickness and color of hair, but I do
know that there is a way of being beautiful, even as age takes its toll, that has something
to do with the spirit filling with joy, something to do with the union with another human
being, with the sense of having done well at something enormously important, like making
happy a man who has made you happy often enough.
Ten days after that morning conversation, my husband and I returned from a concert and
dinner with friends and walked down our windy block toward our apartment house when
suddenly he stumbled and fell and died within minutes. As I waited for the ambulance, I
remembered his words, a beauty potion I would take with me into the rest of my life."