I wonder if we'll make it to our fiftieth anniversary,,/i> I say to Q.
How old will I be? he asks.
111, I say. <,i>And a half.
We might not make it, he says.
I don't know; I could see you living to 111. And I can. I can well imagine him alive then, 111 years old and still running down the stairs. But then, I think professional wrestling is real.
,i>And you'll be 88, he says.
That I can't see. I expect to be safely in heaven long before then, so I guess Q will have to observe our golden wedding with a quiet toast to my memory. He can do that with his new wife -- a nurse, perhaps.
Today is actually the 20th anniversary of the day we met. We got the chance to burden Nancy with the tedium of how it came about, and she took it well. We went on to describe our first date at some length, where we had dinner and what movie we saw and how we ended the evening eating chocolate cake in my living room, sitting on the floor with the dog. We touched on our first argument, and recalled the moment when I actually believed we might marry, which was on our way home from having asked my bishop for permission to do so.
You didn't know until then? Q said.
You hadn't asked me, I said. I don't know things unless you tell me.
I didn't know. I hoped, but I was afraid to hope out loud. So many of us are afraid to hope out loud, so afraid the ones we want desperately to love us will guess the passion of our hope and run away.
You're not going to get serious about him, are you? Anna asked me the next morning. He's so old. Anna was 11.
Oh, no, I said airily. He's just a nice man.
That was already a lie. But I was afraid to hope out loud.
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