Close, But With Heart
It had been eight years since my husband, Frank, passed away. Gloria—that’s my name, worn with pride—is the grandmother of three wonderful grandchildren, a retired Polish language teacher, and a lover of classical music and good stories. I live just beside the park, in a little house with pink shutters, and each day begins with tea and a long phone call with my daughter.
Life was peaceful. Well-ordered. But sometimes, especially in the evenings when the nightingale sang beyond the fence, I felt something missing—a person to share more than just silence.
One day, while browsing the city’s cultural program, I came across an ad: localseniorsdating.com – Love doesn’t have to be far away. Sometimes it lives just a few streets over.
Hesitantly, I clicked. I signed up. I uploaded a photo—me with an umbrella at the National Museum, during an Impressionist exhibition—and wrote simply: “Looking for a companion for museums, walks, and endless conversations. I love art, books, and humor with character. If you believe the most beautiful moments begin after seventy… say hello.”
A week later, I received a message from Edward.
His profile was modest: a silver-haired man in a tweed hat, standing before a painting at the Hermitage. His bio read: “Retired architect. Loves museums, jazz, and riverside walks. Looking for a woman who isn’t afraid of silence… or deep conversations.”
We messaged. And we talked. About films (we both adored Bergman), travel (he’d visited St. Petersburg in the 1980s; I dreamed of Paris), and our children—his son is a doctor in Gdańsk, mine runs a bookstore in Kraków. Then, almost casually, he mentioned: “I’m visiting the Romanticism exhibition at the Art Museum this Saturday. Would you like to join me?”
And so we met—among paintings filled with storms, emotions, and dramatic landscapes. Edward waited by the entrance with two audio guide headsets. He smiled when he saw me.
- I was afraid the Expressionism section might scare you. - he said. - But since you chose Impressionists as your profile picture… I think we’ll manage.
We laughed, strolling through the galleries. We commented on the artworks, shared memories—he told me about designing a church that was meant to have a “soul,” I spoke of teaching students to see beauty in a well-written sentence.
At one painting—a landscape with a single tree atop a hill—we paused longer.
- That was me a few years ago - he whispered. - A lone tree. Now… I hope the roots can grow together again.
I looked at him. I didn’t need an audio guide to understand that sentence.
After the exhibition, we went for tea at a small café across the street. He told me about his grandkids teaching him how to play games on a tablet. I showed photos from our latest family picnic—where my granddaughters insisted I dance with a balloon as my partner.
- You see? - I joked. - I still have rhythm.
- And I,” he replied, “hope I can become part of that rhythm.
Since that Saturday, months have passed. We meet regularly—for exhibitions, chamber concerts, Sunday breakfasts at my place, where he brings croissants and I tell stories from my teaching days.
Our children are warm, though initially cautious. But they quickly realized this isn’t just companionship. It’s peace. Understanding. Someone who listens, remembers the grandchildren’s names, and asks: “What story did Grandma tell today?”
Because love in later life doesn’t need to be loud. Sometimes, all it takes is a gallery full of paintings, a gentle touch of hands at the exit, and someone who says: “I’d like more Saturdays like this.”