Bonnie Sheets, Wife
On our very first date, Yar and I went to a movie. As we walked down the aisle looking for a seat, I turned to him and said, “Can we sit kinda close? I forgot my glasses.”
Without missing a beat, he responded, “Sure, we’ll sit right next to one another.”
What a quick wit! I was instantly smitten. And honestly, when he heard my loud laugh at his joke, I think he was kinda smitten, too.
From that very first day, we bonded over our shared love of nature, hiking, and camping. We took long drives through mountain passes—with the heater or the A/C blasting depending on the weather, but always with the windows wide open so we could feel the wind. We would sing along to songs or get lost in long, deep discussions. We continued those drives all through our life together.
There wasn’t much Yar couldn’t do. If we needed a gate, Yar would design it and build it. I was always amazed that his initial drawing and the finished item looked exactly the same. Bird bath? No problem. I would explain what I wanted a flower bed to look like, he’d sketch it out, and we would do the work together. He always captured, and usually improved, my vision. We did so many projects in our homes, and I truly loved working right beside him.
He also loved baking bread. When we lived in New Mexico, he created a recipe for Green Chile Cheese Bread, which became a staple at our Thanksgiving and Christmas tables. It was so delicious. He enjoyed painting, photography, and traveling, and our absolute favorite places to go were America’s beautiful National Parks.
Yar was endlessly curious and always learning. We always, always had music playing in our home. Because of that, Yar’s favorite game to play was "Name the Artist." A song would start on the radio, and I’d have about five seconds to guess who it was. I was horrible at this.
Early in our marriage, my default guess was always just, "Zeppelin." Later on, I switched to "Moody Blues," or "Pink Floyd," and on and on.
One time, out of pure exasperation, I asked him, “How do you remember all of this?”
He just looked at me and said, “Honey, you do realize I only ask you the questions I know the answer to.”
He had a brilliant mind, and I completely fell in love with that mind.
When I was diagnosed with cancer, Yar became entirely devoted to my beating it. Through chemo and my first surgery, he took care of everything. He cooked, he cleaned, he shopped—he did it all. He encouraged me to join an online "Living with Cancer" support group, but I wasn’t interested. Yar knew those discussions would help me, so he joined the group, too.
In those meetings, we completely flipped our introvert and extrovert selves. Yar spoke much more than he would normally ever be comfortable with, while I struggled to speak at all. That group ended up being a lifesaver for me, and I am so grateful Yar did that. He did it entirely for me.
Caregiving is grueling, but he never once complained. It was actually during this time that he started writing. His poems made me hopeful, and usually, they made me laugh. He always said his job was to make me laugh every single day, and he did. Humor was a massive part of the glue that held our marriage together. I’d groan at his jokes sometimes—as I suspect most of you here today have also done—but Yar was actually quite funny.
When I was first told I had cancer, I was shocked. I felt like the ground had been completely pulled out from underneath me. But Yar was always there, protecting me, watching over me, and reminding me of who I was. He was my safe place. He was my earth.
When I ended up facing round two of chemo and an extensive second operation, Yar was right there with me through every single moment. Honestly, he is the reason I am able to stand before you today.
I recently re-read one of his writings about what we went through over the last several years. I want to share an excerpt, because I think it captures his heart and our journey beautifully. He wrote:
"We both discovered the parts of ourselves which we’d kept safely locked away from interaction. We learned quiet. We learned hope. We learned kindness. We learned patience. And the great thing about the word “learned” is that learning is self-sustaining. Once you’ve started, you cannot stop. We have been through many traumatic experiences in the past two years. We keep learning more about each other’s hearts, and our own. To simply be there, always on call, for another person, with devotion and kindness at the core of everything, has been a source of liberation for me. This is something which is going to keep both of us going until our bodies give out. All my years of marriage failed to teach me this. It took cancer to do that. But the important thing is the learning."
Looking back, it’s not the vacations or the travel that I miss the most. It’s the routine of our daily lives.
I miss figuring out Wordle and Connections together. Going grocery shopping together, cooking together, and eating together. Watching dramas in the evening, together. Lying next to each other in bed, together. Nothing amazing—just old love, living our lives.
Rest in peace, my love. Soon enough, we’ll be together again to watch the seasons pass in eternity, together.