my other

us

He was Welsh. A beautiful man with a beautiful voice.
He loved Shakespeare and baseball, poetry and rainy days.
He was kind and soft spoken with a volcanic temper for
injustices of all stripes. He had a witty, dry humor punctuating
his observations. He was a lifelong actor, a singer, a narrator
of television specials. His unrealized dream was to be a professional
baseball player. When he wasn’t in front of the camera or on stage,
he was an avid reader, including seven daily newspapers. Politics
fascinated him; he knew the subject from left to right, but always kept
his views to himself. He was my best friend, my soulmate, my other half.
His name was Norman Evans, and he was my husband of thirty-three years.
He is my nostalgia.

Although he’s been gone for almost two decades now, he is always with me.
My heart never stops aching for him. Wherever I turn, he’s there. Or here.
His books, his photos, his scripts, his videos. They are him. They bring
me back to all the years before he was gone. Seeing his face in earlier films
on television, or his name rolling by on screen credits… grips me hard.
I want to see more of him. Alive. I still…