Sometimes, even now, he surprises me.
Like the time I asked him what he wanted for breakfast, and he looked me straight in the eye and said, “A glass of champagne and you in a red dress.” I laughed so hard, I nearly burned the toast. He didn’t remember saying it a few minutes later, but the sparkle in his eye lingered — like a curtain momentarily lifted to let the light through.
Or the afternoon we sat on the couch, and out of nowhere he whispered, “You’re still the prettiest girl I know.” I turned to him, half-expecting confusion or misdirection, but no — that was all him. The man I married. The one who always knew how to make me blush.
Then there was the sock episode — he wore mine, bright pink and far too small, and insisted they were “limited edition men’s ankle warmers.” He defended them fiercely, right until he tripped trying to stretch one over his heel and we both ended up in fits of laughter.
These are the moments that keep me going. Because even now, even when memories fade or days blur into each other, there are flickers. Tiny rebellions of joy. Love surfacing in unexpected ways — a cheeky grin, a ridiculous joke, or a sudden urge to walk hand-in-hand around the garden, like we used to when everything still made sense.
They don’t stay long. But they’re enough.
They remind me that he’s still here — and so am I. Not just surviving, but laughing. Still living.
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