Nobody could understand how lonely I was after losing my husband, Harold—except my friend Larry.
We lived more than 200 miles apart, but we’d met at a National Association of Postmasters conference 25 years ago and had kept in touch. He’d recently lost his wife.
“This year would’ve been our golden anniversary,” Larry said over lunch at our yearly meeting.
“Harold and I would’ve been married fifty years this July!” I said. I couldn’t believe I’d have to face our fiftieth anniversary without him. I dreaded the thought of it.
“Why don’t we celebrate our golden anniversaries together?” Larry said. “There’s no reason friends should be lonely on special occasions.”
We decided to meet halfway between our homes, in a small town on the Oregon coast, on a date that fell halfway between our anniversaries. I actually looked forward to the day.
Larry and I walked the beach, lunched at a nice restaurant and browsed antique shops.
That evening we broke out our wedding albums and entertained each other with stories from the 100 years of combined married life between us—and the 50 years of combined friendship.
It was a golden anniversary after all.
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