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How many times, in those first weeks, did he enter the room and stand by the door, unable to speak? How many times did she ask, “Do you need anything?”And he would say, “No.”And she would say “Are you sure?”And he would say, “Yes,” but think, Ask again.And she would say, “I know,” but think, Come to me.And he would say , “Ask again.”And she would say, “Come to me.”And saying nothing, he would.There they would be, side by side, her hand on his thigh, his head resting on her chest. If they had been teenagers, it would have looked like the beginning of love, but they’d been married for twenty years, and it was the exhumation of love.
