For a long time, it had sat on the end of the banister, the tweed hat had never been allowed to gather dust. It had carefully been cleaned every day or so as if my Grandfather had placed it there after a walk himself. Though the man it represented had been gone now for many years, that hat had become a reassuring presence to me.

Vague memories of him wearing the hat would peek forth during my visits. Often mixing with a smell of pipe tobacco, tight hugs, and being loved.

"It’s so people think there is a man still living here," my Grandmother once explained to me.
But the care taken with the hat suggested far more. A lingering touch when she walked past it, the momentary sadness or memory that would enter her eyes, then a soft, accepting smile as the warmth touched her heart once more.

Perhaps my Grandmother also saw him standing on the stairs, reaching for the hat before taking a walk with her, his Peggy?

Though only the hat, and a few other small things were visible, I grew to understand that my Grandfather was here with my Grandmother every day.

We never really spoke of how she must have missed him. Why would I have asked such? I simply had to catch the look in the older woman’s eyes as she touched the picture of her Jack. That spoke more than words ever could.

What few memories I had of my Grandfather confirmed that he would be proud of his Peggy. For the strength and determination she had shown in continuing to live after his death, when so many might simply have existed. His own strength had fought past changes caused by war and illness. Brought him safe home, eventually even with a certificate to prove his sanity. Something not many can boast of. (rewrite these last 3 sentences. His own strength had fought past changes caused by war and brought him home safe. Something like that. You mix illness in and speak of sanity and I don’t get the certificate. Thing at all. Either explain it or loose it)

Being honest, looking back I did not remember if the hat had ever been worn by him prior to his death. It no longer mattered; it had become a welcoming presence on the end of the rail every time my Grandmother opened the door.

Jack Burns, for whom my son is named after, died on Valentines day 1973. A heart attack finally taking him from the family he loved so much.

As for my Grandmother. She lives still in the house she and Jack raised their family in.

The bit about you and your grandmother being in conflict is not represented earlier so it doesn’t work to just plop it down here. Loose it, or give me more, but this story is about your Gran and her affection for a departed husband. It’s not really about you other than your observations.

We’ve had our up’s and downs over the years.

Who hasn’t?

My choices in life might have made her wish Jack still walked by her side. If nothing else to help her through whatever heartache I inflicted.

Those differences do not stop me from loving her.
Just as I know, somehow, that death didn’t take her Jack from that house. He’s there still, watching over my Grandmother. I know he shares her tears and joy with the path my life has taken.

I know he watches my Mum, and my own Jack.
Perhaps he even watches me. (no, I think if he watches your gran and Jack he watches you too. This doesn’t work either.)

This Valentine’s day take a moment to remember that love is not about flowers, cards, or expensive gifts. You can’t buy it. Stores don’t stock it.

No, Valentine’s day is about Jack Burns, and all others like him. The ones whose love lasts as long as we carry them in our hearts.

Terri Pray is an English woman living in Minnesota. Her writing covers a wide range of genres from non fiction to fiction, flash through to novel lengths. http://www.terripray.com/

Contact her at hischani@charter.net