"Who?"

"A lover of words, a shaper of thoughts." She does not respond directly. Instead shestares at me for a long while, until our breathing coincides. In. Out. In. Out.

In. Out. Deep breaths. I wonder if she knows I think she's beautiful.

"Would you stay with me a while?" she finally asks.

I smile and nod. She smiles back. She reaches for my hand, takes it gently, and pulls itto her waist. She stares at the hardened knots that deform my fingers and caressesthem gently. Her hands are still those of an angel.

"Come," I say as I stand with great effort, "let's go for a walk. The air is crispand the goslings are waiting. It's beautiful today." I am staring at her as I say theselast few words. She blushes. It makes me feel young again.

She was famous, of course. One of the best southern painters of the twentiethcentury, some said, and I was, and am, proud of her. Unlike me, who struggled towrite even the simplest of verses, my wife could create beauty as easily as the Lordcreated the earth. Her paintings are in museums around the world, but I have keptonly two for myself. The first one she ever gave me and the last one. They hang in myroom, and late at night I sit and stare and sometimes cry when I look at them. I don'tknow why.

And so the years passed. We led our lives, working, painting, raising children, lovingeach other. I see photos of Christmases, family trips, of graduations and of weddings.

I see grandchildren and happy faces. ! see photos of us, our hair growing whiter, thelines in our faces deeper. A lifetime that seems so typical, yet uncommon. We couldnot foresee the future, but then who can? I do not live now as I expected to. And whatdid I expect? Retirement. Visits with the grandchildren, perhaps more travel. Shealways loved to travel. I thought that perhaps I would start a hobby, what I did notknow, but possibly shipbuilding. In bottles. Small, detailed, impossible to considernow with my hands. But I am not bitter.

Our lives can't be measured by our final years, of this I am sure, and I guess I shouldhave known what lay ahead in our lives. Looking back, I suppose it seems obvious,but at first I thought her confusion understandable and not unique. She would forgetwhere she placed her keys, but who has not done that? She would forget a neighbor'sname, but not someone we knew well or with whom we socialized. Sometimes shewould write the wrong year when she made out her checks, but again I dismissed itas simple mistakes that one makes when thinking of other things.

It was not until the more obvious events occurred that I began to suspect the worst.

An iron in the freezer, clothes in the dishwasher, books in the oven. Other things, too.

But the day I found her in the car three blocks away, crying over the steering wheelbecause she couldn't find her way home was the first day I was really frightened.

And she was frightened, too, for when I tapped on her window, she turned to me andsaid, "Oh God, what's happening to me? Please help me." A knot twisted in mystomach, but I dared not think the worst.

Six days later the doctor met with her and began a series of tests. I did not understandthem then and I do not understand them now, but I suppose it is because I am afraid

to know. She spent almost an hour with Dr. Barnwell, and she went back the nextday.

That day was the longest day I ever spent. I looked through magazines I could notread and played. games I did not think about. Finally he called us both into his officeand sat us down. She held my arm confidently, but I remember clearly that my ownhands were shaking.

"I'm so sorry to have to tell you this," Dr. Barnwell began, "but you seem to be inthe early stages of Alzheimer's .... "

My mind went blank, and all I could think about was the light that glowed above ourHeads. The words echoed in my head: the early stages of Alzheimer's . . .

My world spun in circles, and I felt her grip tighten on my arm. She whispered, almostto herself: "Oh, Noah... Noah..."

And as the tears started to fall, the word came back to me again:... Alzheimer's... It isa barren disease, as empty and lifeless as a desert. It is a thief of hearts and souls andmemories. I did not know what to say to her as she sobbed on my bosom, so I simplyheld her and rocked her back and forth.

The doctor was grim. He was a good man, and this was hard for him. He was youngerthan my youngest, and I felt my age in his presence. My mind was confused, my lovewas shaking, and the only thing I could think was: No drowning man can know whichdrop of water his last breath did stop;... A wise poet's words, yet they brought me nocomfort. I don't know what they meant or why I thought of them.

We rocked* to and from*, and Allie, my dream, my timeless beauty, told me she wassorry. I knew there was nothing to forgive, and I whispered in her ear. "Everythingwill be fine," I whispered, but inside I was afraid. I was a hollow man with nothing tooffer, empty as a junked stovepipe.

I remember only bits and pieces of Dr. Barnwell's continuing explanation. "It's adegenerative brain disorder affecting memory and personality . . . there is nocure or therapy .... There's no way to tell how fast it will progress.., it differsfrom person to person ....I wish I knew more .... Some days will be better thanothers It will grow worse with the pas‐sage of time I'm sorry to be the one whohas to tell you " I'm sorry...

I'm

sorry...

I'm sorry...

Everyone was sorry. My children were brokenhearted, my friends were scared forthemselves.

I don't remember leaving the doctor's office, and I don't remember driving home.

My memories of that day are gone, and in this my wife and I are the same.

It has been four years now. Since then we have made the best of it, if that is possible.

Allie organized, as was her disposition. She made arrangements to leave the houseand move here. She rewrote her will and sealed it. She left specific burial instructions,and they sit in my desk, in the bottom drawer. I have not seen them. And when shewas finished, she began to write. Letters to friends and children. Letters to brothersand sisters and cousins. Letters to nieces, nephews, and neighbors. And a letter tome.

I read it sometimes when I am in the mood, and when I do, I am reminded of Allie oncold winter evenings, seated by a roaring fire with a glass of wine at her side, readingthe letters I had written to her over the years. She kept them, these letters, and nowI keep them, for she made me promise to do so. She said I would know what to dowith them. She was right; I find I enjoy reading bits and pieces of them just as sheused to. They intrigue me, these letters, for when I sift through them I realize thatromance and passion are possible at any age. I see Allie now and know I've neverloved her more, but as I read the letters, I come to understand that I have always feltthe same way.

I read them last three evenings ago, long after I should have been asleep. It wasalmost two o'clock when I went to the desk and found the stack of letters, thick andtall and weathered. I untied the ribbon, itself almost half a century old, and found theletters her mother had hidden so long ago and those from afterward. A lifetime ofletters, letters professing my love, letters from my heart. I glanced through themwith a smile on my face, picking and choosing, and finally opened a letter from ourfirst anniversary.

I read an excerpt:

When I see you now‐‐moving slowly with new life growing inside you‐‐I hope youknow how much you mean to me, and how special this year has been. No man is moreblessed than me, and I love you with all my heart.

I put it aside, sifted through the stack, and found another, this from a cold eveningthirty‐nine years ago.

Sitting next to you, while our youngest daughter sang off‐key in the school Christmasshow, I looked at you and saw a pride that comes only to those who feel deeply intheir hearts, and I knew that no man could be more lucky than me. And after our sondied, the one who resembled his mother . . . It was the hardest time we ever wentthrough, and the words still ring true today:

In times of grief and sorrow ! will hold you and rock you, and take your grief and makeit my own. When you cry, I cry, and when you hurt, I hurt. And together we will try tohold back the floods of tears and despair and make it through the potholed streetsof life.

I pause for just a moment, remembering him. He was four years old at the time, justa baby. I have lived twenty times as long as he, but if asked, I would have traded mylife for his. It is a terrible thing to outlive your child, a tragedy I wish upon no one.

I do my best to keep the tears away, sift through some more to clear my mind, andfind the next from our twentieth anniversary, something much easier to think about:When ! see you, my darling, in the morning before showers or in your studio coveredwith paint with hair matted and tired eyes, I know that you are the most beautifulwoman in the world.

They went on, this correspondence of life and love, and I read dozens more, somepainful, most heartwarming. By three o'clock I was tired, but I had reached thebottom of the stack. There was one letter remaining, the last one I wrote her, and bythen I knew I had to keep going.

I lifted the seal and removed both pages. I put the second page aside and moved thefirst page into better light and began to read:

My dearest Allie, The porch is silent except for the sounds that float from theshadows, and for once I am at a loss for words. It is a strange experience for me, forwhen I think of you and the life we have shared, there is much to remember. Alifetime of memories.

But to put it into words? I do not know if I am able. I am not a poet, and yet a poemis needed to fully express the way I feel about you.

So my mind drifts, and I remember thinking about our life together as I made coffeethis morning. Kate was there, and so was Jane, and they both became quiet when Iwalked in the kitchen. I saw they'd been crying, and without a word, I sat myselfbeside them at the table and held their hands. And do you know what I saw when Ilooked at them? I saw you from so long ago, the day we said good‐bye. They

resemble you and how you were then, beautiful and sensitive and wounded withthe hurt that comes when something special is taken away. And for a reason I'm notsure I understand, I was inspired to tell them a story.

I called Jeff and David into the kitchen, for they were here as well, and when thechildren were ready, I told them about us and how you came back to me so long ago.

I told them about our walk, and the crab dinner in the kitchen, and they listened withsmiles when they heard about the canoe ride, and sitting in front of the fire with thestorm raging outside. I told them about your mother warning us about Lon the nextday‐‐they seemed as surprised as we were‐‐and yes, I even told them what happenedlater that day, after you went back to town.

That part of the story has never left me, even after all this time. Even though I wasn'tthere, you described it to me only once, and I remember marveling at the strengthyou showed that day. I still cannot imagine what was going through your mind whenyou walked into the lobby and saw Lon, or how it must have felt to talk to him. Youtold me that the two of you left the inn and sat on a bench by the old Methodistchurch, and that he held your hand, even as you explained that you must stay.