It’s a sweet story that Boston Herald columnist Joe Fitzgerald tells in his latest piece.
He remembers the first time he saw her.
He was far from his Roxbury roots, living in a small northeast community that reminded him of Mayberry RFD, trying to establish himself in a career that had always been his heart’s desire.
He was sitting at one end of the counter in a popular local eatery when, at the opposite end, he saw her emerge from the kitchen and engage a customer in friendly banter.
He asked the townie next to him, “Who is that?”
He was told she was a college junior, home for the summer, waitressing.
Call it magic. Call it an epiphany. All he can tell you today is that he was swept off his feet that night, enraptured by someone he had yet to meet.
When he shook her hand that first time he did not want to let it go. He was captivated, yet clear-headed enough to ask her for a date.
Nine months later she became his wife.
He was 21, she was 19, and their marriage would flourish for 46 years.
He, of course, is Fitzgerald himself. And he lost his great love two years ago yesterday.
But still won’t let go of her.
Friends tell him he needs to get out more, maybe ask a lady out to lunch. He knows they mean well.
But sometime today he’s going to stand before the heart-shaped stone that bears their names and tell that stunning waitress that he loves her more than ever.
God love ’em both.