In a little rural town, 30 minutes away from what is called “the big city,” a winding road strolls out to the moonlight countryside. Surrounded with pastures, bleating goats, lowing cows, pecking chickens, and a three-legged dog, a stone brick one-story house, holds an elderly gentleman, with his thick glasses and slow gait. Every evening he walks over to an old picture that hangs on the living room wall. He reaches his hand out, touching the wall he steadies himself as he stands and whispers, “Good night, Lois.”
Every night since his beloved Lois died, Richard stands at the portrait they had made on their 50th wedding anniversary and tells her good night, then he kisses her picture. This was his love for over 60 years, the mother of his children, and his constant friend.
Richard was coming home with one of his friends and saw Lois walking down a dirt road. She was returning home after taking food to a neighbor. Richard leaned over and boasted, “I am going to marry that pretty girl.” He was only 17 years old at that time. Lois was a sweet tempered, gentle, short, girl with deep brown eyes and brown teased hair. He did marry her, and if ever Lois wished for anything, it was as a command to Richard’s heart. Every night before falling asleep, kissing her gently, he would whisper “Good night, Lois.”
After many years of joy and sorrow together, Lois became greatly ill. One day when her sickness was more than she could bear, Lois turned her head to look at her husband from her chair. Their chairs had been sitting next to each other in the den since they were married. She asked Richard to bury her beside their “little girl.” Richard and Lois had six children; however, only two of them ever lived to see adulthood. One was a little girl who was buried in the old cemetery near the old church where they were married. Traditionally, when children die first, the father is buried next to them, but not Richard. Because he loved Lois and honored her request, she now lays beside her babies specifically next to their little girl who was the last one they laid to rest. It was a comfort to Richard that they all were buried by the old country church where he first learned to talk with God. Now whenever he went to spend time with his Lord, he took it as an opportunity to see his loved ones. A small replica of Richard’s and Lois’ 50th anniversary picture is on her tombstone.
Several years have passed since Lois’s death; yet still, every night before he goes to bed Richard stands and whispers “Good night, Lois.” As the years pass, his lips seem to press deeper into the glass. His words are still strong, just as real, as when he had spoken them the first night of their marriage. Slowly, with a stiff, sore back, Richard walks over to the wall. His legs might ache, but he never walks to bed without kissing the picture of his wife and whispering “Good night, Lois.”
After Lois’s death, several of the old women of the church set their caps for Richard; after all, he was a kind, good man, and still quite a handsome looker, after all he still had all his teeth. All those women could do was make him laugh at their foolishness. He enjoyed not having to cook, but none of their famous casseroles would change the steadiness of his heart. Richard never stopped giving his good night kiss to his wife, touching the fragile, thin picture and whispering “Good night, Lois.” The house was still the same as she had left it. Her chair was still next to his; the blue and white curtains with prints of happy little geese waddling around the border still hung in the windows, and her homemade quilts were still on the bed. Every night these precious things reminded Richard of the home that they made and the life they had. Taking account of the treasures they had accumulated together, Richard whispered again as he touched her picture with a gently kiss “Good night, Lois.”
In of June, last year the quilts were not pulled. Lois was not kissed. The loving words of “Good night, Lois,” were not spoken in the little brick home. Where was Richard? Why was he not there? He was in an old folk’s home. Richard was not surrounded by his memories of Lois and the things that reminded him of their life together. Instead of hand sewn homemade quilts, there were standard hospital blankets; instead of goose curtains, plain white blinds, stopped the light from entering the windows. Instead of pictures of his family, there were cold, block, white walls. Even alone, far from their home, Richard still thought of his wife. Sorrowfully, blowing a kiss up to heaven, he tearfully whispered, “Good night, Lois.” Tragic goodbyes were not for long. Richard would never kiss the picture of his Lois again; yet, he would never need to. Lois and he were reunited. Never again would a thin piece of glass silence the loving words – “Good night, Lois.”