My name is Rosemary. I am 83 years old, and I have been a widow for 4 months.
For 63 Valentine’s Days, my husband, Philip, never forgot to bring me flowers.
He proposed on February 14, 1962, when we were both 20. He borrowed the communal kitchen in my college residence hall and attempted to cook spaghetti. The noodles were overboiled, the sauce came from a jar, and he hid the burned side of the garlic bread by turning every slice face down.
After dinner, he handed me 6 roses wrapped in newspaper. He had washed dishes in the campus cafeteria for 2 weeks to afford them and the narrow silver ring hidden among the stems.