He Came with Roses and a Story about His Granddaughter

I never expected that someone would come to me with roses again. And certainly not with a bouquet of roses in one hand and a Scrabble box in the other.

David appeared in my life when everything seemed already settled — grown children, grandchildren visiting at holidays, days filled with books and honeyed tea. I had been a widow for a few years, had come to terms with the silence at home and evenings spent with a crossword puzzle. Yet... sometimes I missed that someone’s “How was your day?” Not loneliness, but harmony.

We met through the site justsingleseniors.com. It started simply — a few messages, a bit about the weather, a bit about favorite books. But what disarmed me was his story about his granddaughter, who taught him how to use emojis in messages. “Grandma, grandpa writes like a teenager now!” her husband supposedly said. I laughed aloud by the computer.

When he invited me to a board game night, I thought it was the strangest and most charming invitation I’d had in years. I agreed. And so, on a Friday evening, I opened the door and saw his slightly too neatly tied tie, his smile, and the roses — red, classic, smelling like summer.

— This is a thank you for daring to accept an invitation from a man who loses checkers to his ten-year-old granddaughter — he joked.

We played Scrabble. I don’t remember who won the first round. But I remember how long we laughed at his attempts to create the word “fjuźgaj,” which — he insisted — “definitely exists, it’s just not in the dictionary yet.”

We talked. About everything and nothing. About his love of jazz, my lavender garden, how neither of us could give up paper books. David knew how to listen attentively — not only to words but also to the silence between them.

The next Friday he brought homemade cake. The following evening, we played cards, then Rummikub. Slowly, without rush, without grand declarations, we built something... quiet but beautiful. With humor, raspberry tea, and more and more frequent eye contact.

One day he said:

— Amy, you know, I think if life has bonus rounds, this is one of them. And I think we’re winning.

I smiled. Because he was right.

We didn’t need anything more than these shared evenings, laughter over a silly word that doesn’t exist, and the story about the granddaughter who — it turned out — had been rooting for our friendship from the start.

Love after sixty isn’t loud. It doesn’t rush. It doesn’t seek applause. But it tastes deeper. It’s tender in gestures and strong in presence.

And although I still lose at Scrabble, I wouldn’t trade those evenings for anything else.

Because with David, everything — even losing — makes sense.