And maybe in forty-something years, we’ll be living in a house across the sea.
You’ll be 62, and I’ll be 63.
I’ll be the one painting your fingernails because by then you’ll be having arthritis in your hands even if I’ll be having arthritis in my hands too.
We’ll be sitting in front of the ocean for a little while when all we can do is hold hands and how holding hands can still count as making love.
We’ll be holding hands whenever one of us remembers our sad youth. We’ll be holding hands whenever one of us remembers a regret, a mistake and none of it will really matter because by then we’d still have each other. We’ll be holding hands until the end of our golden days as we love each other so gently to teach our grandchildren how love is a kind of soft chaos that dances for all eternity.
We’ll be holding hands while soft dancing our way towards nothingness until it’s finally time for one of us to let go knowing how love was always meant to be.