But old love, tried and true, 40, 50, 60 years of love that has endured not just life’s many blessings, but its incessant challenges? Love with its sheen worn off. This is what dazzles me. Love that doesn’t quit. Love that lasts a lifetime. Love like that of Al and Katherine DelCupolo of Canton.
I have a picture of them taken a long time ago, before I met them, before they were married, both of them dressed to the nines. She is drop-dead beautiful the way young girls were back when lipstick and pearls were their only adornments. A Donna Reed stand-in. And he is movie-star handsome, with his thick dark hair and perfect smile and his crisp white shirt and spiffy tux.
They were this fresh-faced and smiling on their wedding day, too, spry and young and confident.
Now, 60 years later, they are in their 80s and she has macular degeneration and is legally blind. He can’t hear very well. And his heart is a big, big concern.
He had a heart attack four and a half years ago, and it was major. Al is weak. He has been in a hospital since early December, critical at first, every breath a struggle, but a little better now, in rehab at New England Sinai.
Katherine visits him every day. She dresses up, puts on her pearls or some other necklace, a nice skirt, a pretty blouse, a little lipstick, and either her daughter drives her, or a friend, or she takes a cab. But she gets there and sits by his side.
When he wasn’t eating, when his weight was plummeting, she brought him chicken soup that she made without salt, because he can’t eat salt. So she added thyme and tarragon and parsley and a bay leaf and cut up the chicken into small pieces. And pulled up a chair next to his bed and fed him the soup.
And he ate it slowly. Teaspoon by teaspoon. The first food he had eaten in days. And he smiled.
She brings him oranges and peels them for him. She makes him salads because Al loves salad. She brings him food she knows he will eat. He looks forward to this. He looks forward to seeing her.
A few days before Christmas, he said: “You look tired, Katherine. Go home. Get some rest.’’
And she said, hands folded on her lap, “I think I’ll stay a little longer, Alfred.’’
And that was that.
Christmas Eve. Christmas day. New Year’s Eve. New Year’s Day. The same thing.
“You don’t have to come. I’m fine,’’ he said.
She came anyway.
It’s not the dance of youth. It’s not lighthearted and fun, kicking up your heels and partying until dawn. It’s not hand-holding and long, meaningful glances.
It is not romantic.
But it’s a romance, nonetheless. And a dance, too. He leads and she follows. He says, “Katherine, go home,’’ and she stays because she knows both the dance and her partner well.
This is what love is. Knowing. Anticipating. Showing up. Being there.
“Go home, Katherine.’’
And Katherine says, “I think I’ll stay a little longer, Alfred.’’
And does.
