« It’s you and me against the world, Harold. »
Not peaceful quiet, but the kind that settles into your bones and makes the refrigerator hum sound like a fire alarm.
For 43 years, it was just us.
Morning coffee at the wobbly kitchen table. Her humming while she folded laundry. Her hand finding mine in church, squeezing once when the pastor said something she liked, twice when she was bored.
We never had children.
Not by choice exactly, not by accident either. Doctors, timing, money, one bad surgery, and then it was simply the two of us.
« It’s you and me against the world, Harold, » she used to say. « And we’re doing just fine. »
The bed feels colder.
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