When I first met Maureen, I’ll be honest—I didn’t think too much of it. She wasn’t what I expected, not at all. At that time in my life, everything revolved around music—Led Zeppelin was taking shape, and I was consumed by the sound, the rhythm, the road ahead. Romance? It wasn’t on my radar. But Maureen—she walked into my life like a different kind of melody. Not loud, not flamboyant, just real.
I was used to the chaos of the stage, the wild nights, the constant movement. And she was steady—firm, thoughtful, sincere. At first, I didn’t know what to make of that. I thought love had to be fire and lightning. But with her, it was something quieter, something that made you stop and breathe. She gave me a place to rest my soul.
We built a life together, against the current of the world we lived in. I’d go from the madness of a stadium crowd to the stillness of our home, and it was like stepping into a different universe. She grounded me when I needed it most. We had children, shared laughter, and weathered storms I never thought would come. And when tragedy struck—when we lost our son—it tore us apart in ways I still don’t fully understand.
Love like that… it doesn’t vanish. Even when it ends, it leaves its mark, shapes the way you see the world forever. Maureen was more than just my wife—she was a part of my becoming. And though time has taken us down different paths, I still hear echoes of her in the quiet moments. In every real, unvarnished truth I find, I’m reminded of her. Some songs never really stop playing.
