Today, I witnessed a love story. Not the kind of love shared by young people who are half-filled with passion and hormones. It was not the kind of dewy love that newlyweds experience when they are enthralled by the idea of exclusive devotion and the happily ever after. In our world, where vows are broken as quickly as a gavel is lowered, what I saw today was a rarity, a diamond of exquisite design.

I saw a man, a broken man, standing guard over his most prized possession today. Love was personified here. His steps were clumsy when he entered the room, but his determination was undaunted. His gaze was fixed on his goal at the front of the room. Under the colored lights, a steel grey casket sat. Half of its lid was propped open, and the other half held a spray of bright, mixed-up flowers adorned with ribbons that read “wife” and “mother.”

He leaned down and kissed her painted lips without pausing, his frail body trembling to stay upright. His words to her were gentle and soft. These words had undoubtedly been spoken many times before, but this time they were shrouded in finality. “I know you can’t hear me,” he said quietly. “But I adore you.” And his tears flowed He had arrived early because family visitation was not scheduled for another hour or so. He wasn’t going to waste these last few hours.

She had been by his side for over 60 years, but it wasn’t enough. Not even close. As a result, he pulled up a chair and they sat. He sat sidled up to the casket for nearly an hour, his cane on his right side and his deceased wife on his left. He patted her hands and rubbed her arms. He appeared to be comforting her, but in reality, he was comforting himself. It didn’t seem to bother him that her skin was cold, her body stiff and rigid, or that she didn’t respond to his whispered words.

As strange as it appeared, this could have been a typical evening in their home. This scenario appeared completely normal, except for the abundance of lavish flora and small gifts sent by sympathetic friends. When her family arrived, he was still sitting there, holding her hand and stroking her hair. “Doesn’t she look nice?” he asked as his children approached. Everyone was in agreement. And they sobbed.

He stayed nearby for nearly five hours, exhausted and spent, until his body demanded he rest and his mind begged for a break. This devoted man had shown more grace in his time of grief than many do in their times of plenty. I stood there in awe, admiring the faithfulness on display. I’d never seen such a broken man, robbed of his happiness by the curse of death. As I watched him, I wondered what he would do tomorrow and the next day.

Today was the simple part. She was still here today, lying beside him, able to be touched, seen, and kissed. What happens tomorrow, after she is buried and he returns to their home? Her belongings will remain: the scent of her skin, scribbled grocery lists, her favorite chair, leftovers in the fridge, and their bed. Their mattress. After 59 years of sleeping next to your best friend, how does one sleep alone? I can’t see myself ever sleeping again.

Today, I witnessed a love story. And I’ll see it again tomorrow when the story concludes, the stage is empty, and the lights go out. For Bobby and everything he represents.
Note from the Author: I am sharing this story and photograph at the request of Bobby Moore and his family. Nobody was ever supposed to see this story. It was written solely for my own healing and to process the extremely moving experience I had just had.

As I watched Bobby with his wife, I realized how fortunate I was to be present for a moment that conveyed volumes of time. As a photojournalist, I am familiar with photographs that capture verbs. It’s a window into the event, if you will; a bearing witness, if you will. The Moore family hopes that publishing this piece will help others heal.