There are many ways in which we learn love: what it is, how to give it, and how to receive it. I like to think that we never stop learning love; this has certainly been true for me. Often, we first learn by watching those around us experience love. Next, we typically learn by trying to love, and failing.

However, sometimes we learn love in less-expected ways. For me, one of those unpredictable, teachable moments took place during a part-time job I held in college at an assisted living community that specialized in dementia care. I connected with many residents during my time there, but one whose life and story I hold particularly dear is Walter’s.*

Walter was limited in speech, often speaking in fragments that didn’t entirely fit together. He was confined to a wheelchair and kept to himself. He never had any visitors. His wife had passed before him, and he had no children, only relatives who lived in another state.

I sat with Walter at meal times. When he spoke, I listened. When he was quiet, we shared the silence. After dinner, I sometimes wheeled him around the community, telling him about my day and what I was doing later, commenting on the garden just outside that window there, pointing, look how the poppies are opening their faces to the sun.

I often wondered what sorts of date nights Walter and his wife might have shared in their past. I imagine some bistro that was never too crowded, the two of them entertaining the waiter by looking over the menu, though their orders never changed. He’d have a black coffee and she a café au lait. On weekends they’d browse book stores and take strolls through the botanical garden.

One evening, I did not see Walter in the dining room. He had fallen ill and could not leave his room. The rest of his meals were to be brought to him. Then, when I arrived for my next shift, the head nurse informed me that hospice had been called. Walter’s death was my first experience losing a resident whom I had really bonded with.

The community was a secured space, meaning no one could come or go without being buzzed in or out, which was one of my duties. Walter’s out-of-state relatives had been called, and a man had arrived earlier to help prepare for transportation. Some time had passed since the man first arrived and the evening had grown quiet. Most of the residents had finished their dinners and retreated to their rooms or the community space to watch the nightly movie.

The man then emerged from Walter’s room and approached the reception desk, where I was sitting. He looked around, probably for the nurse, who was dispensing medications across the building. He looked at me, and I noticed he held something tightly in his fist. “Excuse me,” he said, “Would you ensure his family gets this?”

He placed in my hand a small, weighty object. I felt the smoothness of its edges with my finger tips before opening my palm. There, a gold band. Walter’s wedding ring.

I looked up at the man, who nodded stoically and held my gaze a moment before turning away, returning to Walter’s room. It was at that moment that I understood the reverent weight of love, the love that does not forget.

This was a love I would see again and again: in husbands who visited their wives every evening to have dinner together, sharing the same food. In daughters and sons who ensured their mother had appointments set with the weekly hairstylist, so that she would always feel her best and beautiful. In siblings and parents and children who graciously and selflessly became caregivers when life demanded it of them, who didn’t break, who did ask God, the universe, whatever you want to call it, Why.

But continued loving regardless.

Notes:

• Featured Image: My dad with grandson Cruz, whom he reverently and fiercely loved.
• *I’ve changed the name and certain story elements in the interest of protecting and respecting family’s privacy.