Today, I witnessed a love tale. 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 enamored by the promise of exclusive devotion and the happily ever after. In this world, when vows are broken as quickly as a gavel is lowered, what I saw today was a rare, a diamond of perfect design.

I observed a man, a damaged man, standing guard over his most valued property today. Love was personified here. His strides were clumsy when he entered the room, but his will remained undaunted. His gaze was fixated on his goal in the front of the room. Under the colored lights, a steel grey casket sat. Half of the lid was pushed open, and the other half carried a profusion of bright, mixed-up flowers festooned with ribbons that said “wife” and “mother.”

He leaned down and kissed her painted lips without pausing, his fragile frame trembling to stay erect. His words to her were polite and soft. These words had undoubtedly been repeated many times before, but this time they were wrapped in finality.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 almost 60 years, yet it wasn’t enough. Not even close. As a result, he drew out 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 soothing her, but in reality, he was comforting himself.

It didn’t seem to disturb him that her skin was cold, her body stiff and unyielding, or that she didn’t respond to his murmured remarks. As strange as it appeared, this may have been a typical evening at their home. This scene appeared totally typical, except for the abundance of expensive plants and tiny presents provided by concerned friends.

When her relatives arrived, he was still sitting there, holding her hand and stroking her hair. When his children approached, he questioned, “She looks good, doesn’t she?” Everyone was in agreement. And they sobbed. He stayed there for nearly five hours, fatigued and spent, until his body demanded he rest and his mind begged for a break.

This loyal guy had showed more grace in his moment of sadness than many do in their days of abundance. I stood there in astonishment, admiring the faithfulness on exhibit. I’d never seen such a devastated man, robbed of his bliss by the scourge of death. As I observed him, I wondered what he would do tomorrow and the next day.

Today was the simple part. She was still here today, lying alongside 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, scrawled grocery lists, her favorite chair, leftovers in the fridge, and their bed. Their mattress. After 59 years of sleeping next to your best buddy, how can one sleep alone? I can’t see myself ever sleeping again.

Today, I witnessed a love tale. And I’ll see it again tomorrow when the story concludes, the stage is vacant, and the lights go off. For Bobby and everything he represents. Note from the Author: I am publishing this story and photos at the request of Bobby Moore and his family. Nobody was ever supposed to witness this narrative. It was composed exclusively for my personal recovery and to process the extremely moving event I had just had.

As I observed Bobby with his wife, I realized how fortunate I was to be present for a moment that expressed volumes of time. As a photojournalist, I am familiar with images 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 poem will help others heal.