The Dead Husbands Club

You don't need to be married to appreciate this, but if you are...

This isn't really a story about love and loss.

It's about the fear of losing the person you love the most and what happens when that fear becomes a reality. It's a story about the power of love and how it can sustain us through anything. But more than that, it's a true story.

Every last word of it.

My wife and I went to a local bar with some friends the other night. It's become one of our Monday night fun rituals. It's a super cool, exclusive hotel bar that happens to be right next door to us.

So yeah, no need to drive or valet the car for this night out.

One of our friends reserves an oversized ole' couch for us. It's this plush, leather monster that has pillows strewn all around. It's in the shape of an "L." And all seven to nine of us can scrunch in it as we wait.

We wait because at 7 pm the live music starts.

Tonite was a classical guitar player. I forget his name, but he was obviously a Hispanic fella. He looked like he knew his way around a guitar, you know, like in a Gypsy Kings kinda way.

But that's neither here nor there.

Suffice it to say, this homie was knocking out some Spanish ballads that rattled your soul. They yanked on every one of your heartstrings. And then, when you thought you couldn't take anymore, the song was over.

His music took your breath away.

But that's not why I'm writing this.

I'm writing this because our Monday night crew is a unique bunch.

You see, I'm the youngest one at 54 years old. I'm also the only man. They are all women who are, well, let's just say, a little more seasoned than I. And we all meet there, my wife as well, and have some overpriced drinks (but damn, do they taste good), talk about life and happiness, and then listen to music that this 5-star hotel has brought in for the night.

The next song homie played is called "Volver, Volver."

It's a Spanish song about a heartbroken man who begs his love to return. Even if you don't speak Spanish, you can just sit there, listen, and feel what it's about. It puts a lump in your throat, point-blank.

My friend Linda turned to me and clinked my glass as the artist was playing.

That was a toast to Ed, she says.

I asked her who Ed is.

And she says Ed is the love of her life.

And that he died 20 years ago.

This song, "Volver' Volver," is a song she hears in reverse.

You see, after twenty years, she is still heartbroken, and all she would wish for is that Ed would return. And when she listens to "Volver, Volver," there is a part, a small part, that makes her feel as if Ed is still there.

It brought tears to my eyes.

Even now, as I write this to you, I'm having to wipe them away as they stream down my face.

In my mind's eye, I still hear the song. I can see Linda and her closed eyes singing the lyrics to a song that brings her husband back to her every time.

It's kind of happy, in a sad way. Or is it sad in a happy way? I don't know.

But what I do know is that I want that too.

Except for the dead part, I mean.

I wish I knew Ed.

I wish I knew the man who, twenty years after his death, still made his girl swoon, and sing, and hope, and wish, and feel, and yes, live on in a grand way and never forget who he was. And even more, I wish I knew the man who has been able to define love from the grave.

The song eventually ended, and the singer took a break.

The other women in the group knew.

They knew because they all leaned in as soon as the artist put his guitar down, drink in hand, and said, "To Ed."

To Ed.