You were 84. Your face was wrinkled, your neck had extra skin folds, your hands were covered in sun spots. But when she walked into the room, you lit up like a firefly. You told me she was the best thing that had ever been yours. You had shaved your stubble because you wanted to look good for your wife. 61 years, you told me. 61 years and you still had a teenage-boy crush on her.
You said you didn’t know how much longer you had left. You said you didn’t want to leave her. You said you love her.