So Danny stayed. He didn’t leave that night, or the next, and after a while he simply didn’t leave at all. We are seventy-six years old, and we have, at last, the marriage we promised each other at a courthouse fifty-five years ago with two-dollar rings. We put those rings back on. They still fit. That undid us both.
We don’t have decades. We know that. We have, if we’re lucky, some years, and we are not wasting a single day of them on grief or rage. We sit on the porch. We hold hands like teenagers, because in the part of us that matters, we still are the teenagers who never got to grow old together, finally getting to grow old together, just very fast and very late.
