Your professional honorifics is just an ornament now. You've retired from your stressful law career; traded cases with fictions, professional emails with personal conversations, and busy offices with flower plantations.
I, too, have bid the capitalistic career goodbye. Grew tired of making multimillion brands earn multimillion more, of overtime taking too much of my time, and of ideas that never saw the light of day.
We sit by our handmade swing side by side and this is our view.
We talk about grandkids and yesterday's landian—the amount of sex we used to have, the alcohol, the space. And everytime we laugh about it, a part of our body aches and we laugh all the more.
We cry over depression, bipolar, and how we help each other when sadness visits us both.
We discuss our same view on love. The graduality of it and how it came quietly between us—not much words, but very much in actions.
We laugh at how we decided that a ring is just a ring—that whatever we are now goes above and beyond marriage.
Ten more years pass by us.
We need wheelchairs now but we admire the same view. In between the laughter and the silence, we talk about death and how we welcome him soon. The years together is a gift; to live this long is a surprise and to have someone by your side still leave us mesmerized.
We don't believe in gods, but we say our thanks from time to time for reuniting us. God, jesus, allah, budah, ganesh, compe anansi. They smile back.
Blink and I'm on my deathbed.
You're holding my hand and I'm holding yours. Both wrinkly and trembling but it is what held each other when sadness feel like staying, when problems feel unending, and when happy moments seem fleeting.
We're surrounded with people we love, created, and raised. Kids and grandkids. Some of them took your name, some mine. This is how they'll remember us. And this is how I'll remember you—amazing, wonderful, beautiful. You hold my hand still as I drift off.
Blink and we see each other on the other side.
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