Say It Before the Silence

"... Sometimes we stand on the top of a hill

And we gaze at the Earth and the sky

I turn to you and you melt in my arms

There we are, darling, only you and I

What a moment to share

It's wonderful, wonderful

Oh, so wonderful, my love..."

Song by Johnny Mathis ‧ 1958

The song played softly over a scene from Desperate Housewives - Karen McCluskey lying in a hospital bed at home, surrounded by love, about to take her final breath.

As the music swelled and Karen rested, my mind drifted, not just to that scene, but to the one the night before. Her husband, Roy, sat outside on the porch with their neighbor Tom, who had just finalized his divorce from a woman he clearly still loved. Roy, quiet and steady, looked at him and said:

"There are things you can't leave unsaid. You have to say them."

That line stopped me in my tracks. I've seen that episode before. But this time… it landed differently. Maybe it was the stillness. Maybe it was the music. Maybe it was Roy's voice, full of a lifetime's worth of wisdom and love. It cracked something open in me. And it brought me back.

I reached out to my laptop, which was still resting on the other end of the couch where I'd left it a few hours earlier. I pulled it close, flipped it open, and powered it on. Without thinking, I double-clicked Grammarly, opened a blank page, and started to write this.

Because sometimes, when your heart is full of all the things you didn't say, the only way to breathe again is to let them out.

I looked up for a moment, my eyes landing on the shelf where Craig's urn sits.

Still. Quiet. Steady.

And just like that, I was there again.

Back in the hospice room. Back to the afternoon, Craig took his last breath. The room was full of natural light, warm and soft, pouring gently through the windows. The kind of light that feels sacred. Peaceful. There were no overhead lights. No medical chaos. Just stillness. Just time holding its breath.

The oxygen machine gave off a gentle hum, fading slowly, like even it knew what was coming. Craig lay still, his breathing slow and uneven. Each rise and fall of his chest softer than the last. We weren't talking anymore.

There were no more questions. Just presence. Just love.

Across from me stood the hospice social worker. Her hands were folded gently in front of her, her expression calm, reverent. Then, when the silence settled into something final, she stepped forward and said softly:

"Time of death... 3:08 p.m."

The words felt weightless and heavy at the same time. Outside, the world kept going. Trees swayed in the breeze like they didn't know everything had changed. But for me, everything had. I had told him over and over, "Don't worry, the kids. Go, you can go. We'll be okay." I said it because I loved him. Because I didn't want him to suffer. Because I thought being strong meant letting go first.

And maybe it was.

But now, six years later, I realize… there was still so much more I wanted to say.

Craig and I had a quiet rhythm. He wasn't flashy with his love, but he was thoughtful. He left me Post-it notes all the time, tucked into mirrors, books, and countertops.

"You've got this!"

"I love you, woman."

"Thank you for being a badass wife."

And when his memory began to slip, I started leaving notes for him, too. At first, they were practical:

"Take your meds."

"Remember to pick up the kids."

Eventually, I started filming short videos of him. Just little clips. A few seconds at a time. I wasn't making keepsakes. I was making memory prompts. Something to hold him steady when the days felt like water slipping through his fingers. And still, even with all those words, I feel like I left so much unsaid.

That's the part no one talks about. When you've loved someone for a long time, you start to assume they know. You've grown lazy, you've grown comfortable. You let the small expressions of love fall into the background, thinking the bigger picture speaks for itself.

But love, real love. It needs to be spoken. Out loud. Again and again!

So tonight, I'm writing this for you. For anyone who still has their person.

Say it. Say it while you can.

In the car. At the kitchen sink.

Text it. Whisper it.

Leave a note on their pillow.

Say it even when it feels silly.

Say it even when they forget.

Tell them they're still the one.

Tell them you're proud of who they are.

Tell them you see them.

Tell them you're so grateful it's them.

Because one day, you may find yourself in a quiet room like I did, long after the world has gone to sleep, the soft glow of memory settling around you, and you'll wish for one more moment. One more word. One more "I love you."

So don't wait.

Say it tonight.

Say it tomorrow.

Say it every day.

Say it while you can.

Because the things you don't say… those are the ones that stay with you.

And love.. love should never be one of them.