“Do you love me as much as the day we met,” the old woman asked her husband, as they watch another sunrise during their sunset years. He turned, running a knotted knuckle down her wrinkled cheek. “More. Everyday l love you a little more.”

They told her he was a good catch. That he’d take care of her, but she needed to be a good girl. Listen, and bend to his will. Never raise her voice and always be obsequious. She wasn’t a good girl and let him go. She married a man that wanted a woman, not a sycophant.

My partner, my lover

He gets under my skin

And lights me from within

He is my sun

And his touch is for more than just fun

It has been that way since I turned twenty-one

And we shall burn bright until way past eighty-one.

Grandpa looked about a hundred and three with a face like old, discarded leather and a wiry white beard. But his voice was strong and his eyes wise and we loved when he told stories of Great Depression. Back when he and grandma’s pockets were empty, but their hearts overflowed with love and hope.

“I love you. I want to marry you.”
She waits for it. That stifling panic of drowning in someone else needs and desires. It doesn’t come. Instead, joy swirls and flows between them. She smiles, and dives into his heart, swimming in his love and years they’ll spend together.

His fingers touched my cheek, and I turned from the purple and red sunset. “I have a secret,” he said.
“What is it?”
He leaned in and kissed me. Through the fireworks going off inside me, loud and beautiful, I heard him whisper, “I love you.”