I never heard the term ‘bucket list’ until decades after I made my first entry on what was to become my personal bucket list.  I was very young at the time and watched an elderly couple as they walked hand-in-hand down the street.  The man said something to the woman and she looked directly at him as she answered.  I have no idea what was said, but I did recognise the emotion they shared.  It was, I was absolutely sure, Love.  Strong, abiding, Love.  The kind of love that carries you through fifty years of living.  It could not be, to my young mind, anything else.

I made a vow to my child-self that one day I too would walk down a street hand-in-hand with someone I loved.  Even as a young child I was a storyteller and, naturally, I embroidered the story a little, made it a bit more dramatic.  This, I decided, was destined to happen on my  fiftieth wedding anniversary.

First though.  I had to grow up and find that husband.

I’m now in my 70’s and many more things have been added and removed from the bucket list I started on that day.  Things like sitting in one of Europe’s great cathedrals listening to a live performance of Mozart’s Requiem; of lying on my back in the snow watching the Arora Borealis dance overhead; of seeing my child walk down the aisle and knowing that powerful love; and holding my first grandchild in my arms.

Only two of those things have come true. Each became, in their turn, the most beautiful, blissful experience of my life.

That first Bucket List entry, to walk down the street holding my husband’s hand and still being deeply in love, should have become true today, 13^th March 2026.  Today it should have been the fiftieth anniversary of my marrying that grandchild’s grandfather and setting the path that brought our whole line of descendants into being.

Just a few weeks after our 22^nd wedding anniversary my husband died.  I was 42, he was 47. 

So many ideas and ambitions came to an end at that time.  And now, all that is left on this day, which was supposed to be so very special, is the cold ash of collapsed dreams.

Instead of walking down the street holding hands with my husband, I spent it at the hospital checking on the progress of a surgery I had undergone three months ago and organising my next two surgeries.  But I still saw Love.  I saw it in the eyes of my surgeon as we spoke about his son.  I saw it in the eyes of a student radiographer who is learning the joy of  her job.  I saw it in the soul of the lady who drives me to the hospital, a lady who like so many others has intimately known pain yet can give her time, her caring and her love freely to everyone she meets.  I saw it, as we arrived back at my house and I got out of the car.  There was an old man, he would be about the same age my husband would have been had he lived.  I do not know this man; I have never met him, but my driver has.  They stopped to say hello and then the old man turned to me, gave me his hand and drew me into a hug.

He was not my husband, he was a stranger. he was not the person I expected to hold hands with on my 50^th wedding anniversary, but he hugged me and then said, “Hello Love”.

Yes.  He was a stranger – but I am a storyteller, and my story ends with two older people holding hands in the street and feeling that love still exists.  That it will always exist.  We only need to see it and not be afraid to share it.

Thank you for reading this.  I invite you to think about the people you love – go, take their hand, give them a hug and for no reason other than “Because you can” tell them that you love them.

And if you need to – allow yourself to cry.

Walk in Peace – the Path of Peace is already beneath your feet.