An old friend of mine, Stan, was in the assisted living. I was determined to visit him, but life got in the way. Finally, one Sunday, despite my busy schedule, I dropped everything and made my way there.

When I got to the building, I asked a caretaker which room he was in. He pointed me down the north wing and said, “Second door on the left.”

I knocked on the door to Stan’s room, which stood ajar. He looked up and smiled. “Well, I’ll be! I feel honored to have the busiest man alive visit me.”

I laughed. Stan and I had worked together on a lot of church assignments, and he knew between my large family, work, and the church and community things I was asked to do that my life was hectic.

“Shoot,” I said, “I had to come up here to make sure you were behaving yourself and weren’t tearing up this place.”

He laughed. “Yeah, me and my walker are really tearing up and down the hallways.”

As we visited, our conversation turned to his wife. She had passed away a few years earlier, and Stan missed her desperately. “You know,” he said, “I remember on nights like this, she would make hot chocolate, and we’d sit in our recliners and sip it.” He then laughed again. “While we did, sometimes I’d sing the song, Tea for Two. Neither of us drank tea, so I’d sometimes sing ‘hot chocolate,’ but it didn’t flow well with the music.”

He paused with a big smile, and then, as if alone with her, he started to sing. “Picture you upon my knee, just tea for two and two for tea, Just me for you and you for me, alone! Nobody near us, to see us or hear us. . .”

As he sang, I saw some movement out of the corner of my eye and turned to the door. An old gentleman, Bob, had paused his wheelchair there. He listened, and when Stan finished, Bob said, “I love that song. I used to sing it to Ellen before she passed away.”

Bob was an old, diehard member of our community. Like Stan, he had worked hard all his life and raised a wonderful family. His wife had also passed away a few years earlier.

“You know,” Bob said, “there was one other song I liked to sing to Ellen on special occasions, like Mother’s Day, her birthday, or the birth of one of our children, when I brought her flowers. I always made sure there was a daisy in it, and then I’d sing, I’ll Bring You a Daisy a Day.”

He then started to sing, starting with the chorus. “I’ll give you a daisy a day. I’ll give you a daisy a day. I’ll love you until the rivers run still. And the four winds we know blow away. . .”

He followed that with the first verse, and Stan joined in. I had heard my grandfather sing it many times and joined in on the parts I remembered. When we finished, we all laughed.

“If only our wives could hear the three of us,” Stan said.

Bob nodded. “Two old coots and a young buck singing songs most people long forgot.” Bob paused a moment, then said, “I’d give anything to hear the recording of that song again.”

We talked a bit longer, and before I left, I promised Bob that I would get him the recording. But the next few weeks were busy. Then I got the news that Stan had died. I thought about our Sunday night together and my commitment to Bob and set out to get the recording. There was no easy way to do it then. I had to get an old record and copy it to a cassette tape. I finally got it made and headed on my way to the assisted living center. I stopped and picked a beautiful daisy from the roadside on the way.

Once at the assisted living center, I asked where Bob’s room was. The assistant said, “I’m sorry, but Bob died this morning.”

I felt devastated. I had not been able to fulfill my commitment to him. However, I left the tape and the daisy for his family.

Later, when I went to the viewing, I saw the daisy, with more added, sitting by the casket with the song playing in the background.

I smiled, thinking that maybe my two friends had once more taken a daisy on their way to join their sweet wives.