Are You Okay?

A Story by E B Smith

A wife in her 80's reflects on their senior years together

The older we grow dear, the closer I need to be to you. You own my hand you know because when I curl my hand inside yours, I can feel your pulse and mine -- it beats as one. That same hand finds its way over your sleeping form at night, to draw a picture with light fingers on your chest. A picture of us drawn next to your heart.

Your occasional limp concerns me, where once I merely teased, and you often fret when I reach for a Bayer. “Are you okay?” seems to be our daily question " the discomfort of each other more important than our own. Our lives now are measured by moments, not days or years. Did I ever thank you for the easeful years you gave me? I meant to, I really meant to.

Alone and forgotten, we came together in those companion years. I wish I had known a young reckless you, but no... it was meant to be savored like a desert. We would share and comfort, enjoy those date nights, and encourage visits from the children we raised. Not a bad exit when you think of all the elderly that have no one.

Considering the amount of people born in our generation... you only have so much time to find each other before you die. So I’m glad we made the effort and succeeded; albeit late. I bless your talent of softening the corners of my anxieties. You simply make it all go away as unimportant really at our age. But I am selfish. Spoiled really. How can I ask for one more day with you when I have had so many already?