Margaret "Maggie" Jameson
Beloved Wife, Mother, Grandmother
1948 - 2015
"Love never ends"
Pops knelt down with a groan, his bad knee popping loudly in the silence, and brushed a few fallen leaves off the stone with a tenderness that made my throat tight.
"Hey, Maggie girl," he said softly. "Brought a stray with me today. You remember Beau Sterling? Richard’s boy. He’s been workin’ the ranch this summer. He’s taller now, but he still trips over his own feet sometimes."
I felt a little ridiculous standing there talking to the ground, but Pops looked up at me expectantly.
I cleared my throat. "Hi, Nana. I don't know if you... I mean, it’s been a long time. But I remember you. You made the best cinnamon rolls I’ve ever had in my life. Better than anything in Dallas."
Pops chuckled, rocking back on his heels. "She did make a mean cinnamon roll. Secret was cardamom. She wouldn't tell anyone else, but she told me."
We stood there for a moment in the companionable silence. Then Pops started talking—casual, easy, like she was just in the other room. He told her about the ranch, about Phoenix jumping the fence, about Winnie training for regionals. He told her about Elise coming to visit.
"And Beau here," Pops said, shooting me a sideways glance, "has been makin’ eyes at our Winnie something fierce. Told her he’d do anything to taste her lips yesterday. Bold move, son."
My face went nuclear hot. "You heard that?"
"Like I said—whole county heard that. You ain't subtle." He turned back to the stone. "He’s a good kid, Maggie. He was a bit lost when he got here, drownin' in all that city noise. But he’s figurin’ it out. Reminds me of myself at that age, actually. All charm and no direction until I met you."
"How did you meet her?" I asked, sitting down on the grass beside him. "I don't think I ever knew the story."
Pops sat too, stretching his legs out. He looked at the horizon, eyes misty.
"County fair. 1968. I was twenty, she was nineteen. I’d just gotten back from a year tryin’ to make it as a rodeo rider—broke more bones than I made money—and I was home lickin’ my wounds. I didn't have two nickels to rub together. And there she was. Workin’ the cotton candybooth." He laughed, a wheezy, happy sound. "I walked past that booth six times before I got the courage to talk to her."
"Six times?"
"Six. And every time, she saw me comin’ and she’d smile. Like she knew exactly what I was doin’ and found it entertainin'. Finally, the seventh time, she just leaned over the counter and yelled, 'You gonna buy some sugar or just keep stalkin’ me, cowboy?'" He shook his head. "I was so embarrassed I bought three bags. I hate cotton candy."
I laughed, picturing a young, terrified Pops. "What happened next?"
"She told me she got off in an hour, and if I promised not to throw up from all the sugar, I could walk her to her truck. So I waited. And we talked for three hours. About everything. Dreams, fears, what we wanted out of life. She told me she wanted a big family and a porch to grow old on. I told her I wanted to stop chasin’ things that didn't matter and build something that lasted."
"And you did," I said. "You built this."
"We did. Together." He ran a hand over the top of the headstone. "Bought the ranch a year later. Married that same year. It was hard work, Beau. We nearly lost the place a dozen times. But we did it together. That’s the important part."
"Did you always know?" I asked quietly. "That she was the one?"
"'Knowing' and 'accepting' are different things," Pops mused. "I knew she was special that first night. But knowin’ you’re in love? That happens in the quiet moments. It’s her leaving me notes in my lunch pail. It’s her rubbin’ my shoulders after a sixteen-hour day. It’s building a life brick by brick until one day you wake up and realize you can't imagine drawing breath without her."
He paused, his voice thickening. "And then... I had to. When she died, it felt like someone reached into my chest and ripped the heart right out. Still feels like that, some days. That’s why I come here. Keeps the memory solid."
"Do you..." I hesitated, fear coiling in my gut. "Do you regret it? Loving her that much, knowing how much it would hurt to lose her?"
Pops looked at me sharply, his eyes fierce. "Not for a goddamn second. Yeah, losin’ her nearly destroyed me. But havin’ her? Those forty-four years? Worth every single second of pain that came after. You don't avoid love because it might hurt, son. You chase it because it's the only thing that makes the hurt worth surviving."
The words settled heavy in my chest. I thought about my parents—their marriage was a merger, a contract signed in ink and maintained by separate schedules. I thought about the girls I’d dated in Dallas—fun, fleeting, forgettable.
And I thought about Winnie. The way she challenged me. The way her skin felt under my hands in the barn. The way I wanted to crawl inside her and stay there.
"I don't think I know how," I admitted, the confession scraping my throat. "To love someone like that. My parents... they aren't like you and Nana. They’re business partners who share a roof. And I’ve never let anyone close enough to risk it."
