Some afternoons, I sit beside him while sunlight pours through his window.
The ducks move slowly across the pond.
Mark turns his ring around his finger.
Sometimes he opens and closes the little hinge.
Click.
Click.
Click.
He watches it with quiet fascination.
Last month, something happened that I’ll never forget.
He carefully removed the ring.
Held it toward the window.
And examined the tiny letters engraved inside.
Then he began reading aloud.
Slowly.
One word at a time.
“Even if I forget…”
He paused.
“…she chose me.”
I held my breath.
He looked up at me.
For a moment, his eyes seemed unusually clear.
Then he asked,
“Who’s she?”
I moved my chair closer.
Took his hand.
And smiled.
“Well, sweetheart, it’s a rather long story.”
He tilted his head.
“Is it?”
“Yes.”
“Would you like to hear it?”
He smiled.
That same smile I’d fallen in love with more than thirty years earlier.
