A ll her friends and family had come to the stage and spoken. They were good words, strong words, beautiful words, all spoken for my Marie. Everyone liked her, most of them loved her, but two days back, she’d cried, “Jamessss…,” and when I had reached her and taken her cold hand, she’d uttered, “I love you,” and stopped breathing. She had closed her eyes and left me forever.

For the third time, she’d suffered a heart attack, and try as hard as she did, Marie couldn’t accompany me any longer. Life’s journey had ended for her.

Now, my turn to speak on the stage had arrived. I had to thank all those who had offered such kind words for Marie.

I got up, those septuagenarian legs wobbled and my grandson came running down the aisle and supported me. I’m still strong, I know I can go on for a decade, or even more, but the moment had gotten to me. Those words that people spoke for Marie wobbled my legs.

As I made my way to the stand, I had a chance to glance at Marie. She was sleeping now, deep, undisturbed sleep in a coffin that looked more comfortable than our bed. I was glad because she had to sleep there forever.

I stopped and watched her. I know people in this small church are waiting to hear from me. The pastor has his arms folded; those compassionate eyes beckon me. But I just had to watch my beautiful Marie. After all, she would be a rare sight soon.

Tears pricked my eyes; I was holding them from bursting out. My shaking hands touched the mahogany of the coffin and I started to remember my past. They all came flooding back.

We’ve been married for forty years, we’ve been together for forty-five years, and I had met her fifty years back. We have two sons, three daughters, and fifteen grandchildren, but I still remembered that moment, the day Marie appeared before me like an angel sent from heaven.

I was a young twenty-one year old; the year was 1924. I was away studying at Cambridge University. But the summer vacation had come about and catching those steam engine trains, I’d made my way to my village.

Before I entered my house, I had marvelled at the Victorian building. With ten bedrooms, two living rooms, two kitchens and a separate servant quarter, it looked majestic against our neighbour’s houses. But when I entered and met my family, something even more majestic, even more beautiful was waiting for me.

I came in and met my parents. My mum took me to our living room, and announced my arrival. Two young girls got up from the sofa. One was Briony, my sister, another Marie.

Briony hugged me and said, “James, I guess you haven’t met Marie. She’s just arrived from Barcelona, she’s our cousin.”

She smiled, widening her thin lips, and brushed her long, black hair backwards. With eyes transfixed on her, I said, “Hola!” and hugged her. I registered shockwaves as her soft, slender body touched mine.

She was a classic Spanish beauty, very much in my mother’s mould. As I looked at her, I felt her chestnut brown eyes could easily drown me. She stood about 5’3, just about the right height for me. And against her fair skin, those long, wispy black hairs looked the perfect combination. I couldn’t keep my eyes off her.

We sat down to talk. My mother started the conversation, Briony kept blabbering, and I constantly kept looking at Marie. The first time our eyes met, we smiled awkwardly. But I realised there was something in Marie, in those eyes, in that innocent smile that said she liked me too.

Later, I asked Marie if she could speak English. I spoke in what little Catalonian I knew. She smiled, in fact she laughed. “Sure, I can,” she said.

It was after my mother and my sister also laughed and told me that she had an English mother, that I realised she was like me, half Spanish, half English. And in Barcelona, she attended an English school. If I had any doubts that I and Marie were incompatible, it was washed away then.

Over the course of next sixty days, I developed a deep, meaningful relationship with Marie. As her physical beauty sunk in, it was her natural side of things, the way she dealt with problems, the way she shared things, the way she cooked those delicious meals, and the way she understood and listened to my visions and aspirations, that made my attraction deepen. My infatuation turned to true love, and one fine evening, as we sauntered in a park, I took her hand and said, “Marie, I think I’m in love with you. Do you love me as well?”

She blushed, looking down on the grass. Birds twittered nearby as I touched her chin and lifted her face. “What do you think of me, Marie?”

She didn’t say anything, but the kiss she gave me said everything. It was our first kiss, and what followed was the most blissful moment of our lives. On the soft, comfortable grass, we made love; the trees hid our bodies, and the blue summer sky delighted in our union, bursting open with shower after we'd finished.

When summer was over, we’d discovered true love. My soul mate had arrived, and I never had to chase, or even look at another girl. We married after I graduated and found work.

If ever there was such a thing as a perfect married couple, Marie and I should share that distinction. Though we had our fair share of arguments and misunderstandings, we never shouted on the top of our voices; it was love that won at the end. We led a heavenly married life.

And our legacy lives on. None of our children is divorced. They enjoy a perfectly happy married life, and I hope the same thing continuous with our grandchildren.

It must have been a long time standing there remembering all these things. A hand touched my shoulder, and by its soft touch, the length, I realised it was Cecilia. I came out of my reverie and looked at her. Her watery chestnut brown eyes, Marie’s eyes, came before me, and our eldest daughter said, “Daddy, do you want me to do the ending speech? It’s ok if you-.”

“No!” I silenced her and trudged along to the stage.