Wishful

I saw an elderly couple on the street. They strolled leisurely, gazing at store windows and stopping for snow cones. He waited patiently as she surveyed shoes. She smiled to herself as he stopped to stare at toy cars. Maybe some things never change, I thought. Maybe the boy or the girl in us lives on forever.

They stopped at a traffic light, cars zipping past in a hurried world that was once theirs. He peered right and she to the left. An unsaid protocol, a tiny idiosyncrasy ingrained in them and habituated over the years. They locked hands with each other and off they went across the road. Did she always walk on his left? Did he take her hand or did she take his? Was it practice or was it chance? No one could say. I’m sure.

They spoke softly, about this and that. He leaned close to her and said something. She let out a low delighted laugh. He chuckled, his eyes twinkling mischievously at his own joke. Did they not argue when they were younger, I wondered. Maybe differences fade away gently. Maybe over time, they had become a little more like each other. But today there was a lovely harmony as they walked along. They were perfectly in step with each other, their pace, fluid and gentle like the breathing of a sleeping child.

It began to rain, a slight drizzle, all but lost in a gusty breeze. He flipped open his umbrella. He didn’t wait, she didn’t hesitate. He wrapped his arm around her shoulder and she took a step closer to him. They walked on, her own umbrella still dangling from her arm. They slowly walked homeward, this profound moment probably just one of the countless others they took for granted.

To me, it was a magical reality dazzling in front of my eyes. I stood there, even as the drizzle became a pattering rain, and looked on at a love that had stood the test of time. I stood there and promised myself our own autumn evening. In that crystallized moment I knew that all I want to do is grow old with you.