Annette and I did crafts. We shared a lifetime, making do-dads for our home. We created for pleasure; a curious form of pleasure, uniting us in love. I, a decrepit old man, clumsy and inelegant, overflowed with love for her. I cooked her meals, cleaned her house and catered to her needs. Despite my weary bones, I gladly gave my love to ease her pain. Annette had a monumental list of ailments.
One Christmas long ago—I can’t remember when—I made a table of pecan and walnut. To welcome the season of joy, she placed a mat upon it, with ivy and holly edging, and over that, a plaque with a biblical quotation and images of Joseph and Mary.

“Sing to the Lord,” it read, “the Prince of Peace will come.”

The next year, she made two cardboard angels with silky hair, placing them beside the plaque. Every year, they stood near the plaque with Joseph and Mary, side by side in hoop skirts, heads bowed, hands clasped in prayer.
Each fall, we prepared for the advent of the yuletide season with more handicrafts. We made an ornament of plaster cherubs, debating our choice of colors well into the night and celebrating with a glass of wine. We had only one rule; the sole ornaments to decorate our home would be those we made ourselves. As the years passed, our store of treasures grew until our home came to look like a souvenir shop and we had to stop.
On December 24, 1994, we sat by the fire surrounded by our handiwork, sharing memories of our sixty years together. We laughed at the crudeness of our early work, like that of children; our later ones more elegantly crafted, created in love and enjoyed with pleasure.
When the flames died that Christmas eve and the embers glowed, I wheeled her to our bedroom, served her nighttime medications, and kissed her with my blessing. I fell asleep despite her restless stirring. In the night, I felt her nudge me.
“Shh!”
I could hardly hear her whisper. I moaned and grunted.
“Shush,” she whispered. “Just listen.”
Bad ears and half asleep, I couldn’t hear a sound. She signaled to be quiet and pointed to the door. I struggled from the bed, inched across the room, peeking round the corner. On the table, the angels knelt, the plaster cherubs that hung on the wall, the molded figurines who celebrated yuletide on the corner table, the trumpeter and sugarplum fairies from the den—all were on the table, facing the angels, their voices harmonized like a Temple Choir singing The Ave Maria. A soft white light projected heavenward from the center of the plaque, lighting the room with an aura of splendor and holiness. The anthem ended. Together, all the ornaments joined in prayer.
I knew the end had come. In the bedroom, I knelt beside my Annette, took her hand in mine and wept.
“Thank You, Dear Lord, for her peaceful passing to a painless place.”