I walk into the hospital room and look at the whiteboard. Somebody has written “Happy 63rd Anniversary, Marietta and Bill” in blue and green. There are little hearts all around the bottom, and probably a smiley face or two. I don’t know it at the time, but in exactly 23 days my mother will be dead. But now she is sitting in her hospital bed. Dad comes over, holds out his hand, and says, “Shall we dance?” Mom thinks he’s kidding, but plays along, and slowly gets up out of bed and grabs onto her walker. Holding her hand, Dad starts twirling the walker around, dancing lightly around it and her. “Remember how we used to dance all of the time?” he asks her. She smiles, looking down at her feet so she can keep her balance. Around and around. “Remember the wedding?” he asks her. “The beautiful gardenias in your bouquet?” She looks up at him and I can feel the love between them. June 10, 1945 is not that far away.
I look away, at the whiteboard, wiping away the all-too-frequent tears. I breathe deeply as they twirl around the room.