It was a starlit Valentine’s night and we were in the Caribbean with friends. Romance was in the air.
On the palm-tree enclosed patio, candles twinkled atop small dinner tables covered with red and white cloths that had been sprinkled with tiny red and silver hearts. We drank champagne that tasted like magic, dined on exceptionally delicious food prepared by an exceptional chef and his staff. The conversation flowed easily over molten chocolate lava cake and the second bottle of magic.
I looked over at my husband and then, through a canopy of palm fronds I gazed up at the stars dotting the blue-black night sky, enchanted by the romance of the evening, perhaps the most romantic evening I’d ever had. And I was overcome by my good fortune to have this delightful feeling at the age of 65, to be sitting at a beautiful table after a beautiful dinner with beautiful friends and the beautiful soul that is my husband.
It is a beautiful life and all the sweeter because it was entirely unexpected, one of those serendipitous surprises that looked like an accident but is so much more. So much more.
“So,” my friend asked my husband, “what made you come back to her after all those years?”
It was a question I’d pondered on many dark, sleepless nights. After all, 26 years is a long time. A very long time.
“I missed her,” my husband said, quietly. “I missed her.”