Man of my life, my late-in-life love.
I had interviewed him twenty-five years before, and I felt intimidated. He said he remembered that.
On our first date, he asked me to sleep with him, and I was surprised. And I did.
On our tenth date he asked me to marry him, and I wasn’t surprised.
And I did.
We worked at home, writing in separate rooms, and when we passed each other in the hall by the kitchen – every single time – we hugged.
I pleased him because it pleased me and he pleased me because it pleased him.
That’s the way it should be.
He would read a book when I had a meeting and no matter how long he waited he’d grin when he saw me. I would watch Yankee games with him and learned the names of all the players. (Well, except for a few of the pitchers.)
He thought my forgetfulness was charming. I thought his lack of pretense was humble.
We never worked at it. We never needed to.
When we traveled to wondrous places together he was as curious as a child. But we were just as content watching birds at the feeder or deer by the pond.
We confided about past pains and sorrows. And we listened and cared and understood.
We always held hands. We slept holding hands.
He got me cooking again.
When people asked how long we were married he made it ten times longer, because he would have wanted that to be.
We were grateful that both of us, finally, were lucky.
Even when I nursed him through the cancer he said these were his happiest years.
And they were my happiest years because they were his.
I can remember his blue-eyed smile even in a darkened room.
He remains in my heart.
My late-in-life husband. My late husband.
My great love.