Old Love

Timeworn but True

A gray man A gray woman They lean on each other weak legs strong love

I don’t know about you but I just love seeing old people (and I say that as a seventy-something youth) holding hands or obviously still loving each other (after all these years — but what do I know, they might have just met).

Actually, I love seeing any couple holding hands. Every now and then, during my morningly (it’s a good word, I just made it) walk along the Pacific, I see a couple strolling down the other side of the road, holding hands. Sometimes the couple is flirting with youth, sometimes firmly arrived in middle age — but the affection strikes me as eternally young.

Warms my heart.

Especially if I have reason to believe that this love story has half a dozen or so decades to it. High school sweethearts now almost leaning on each other, best friend supporting best friend. Sinewy hand clasping sinewy hand.

Then my resident cynic finds the moment ripe for comment: “It’s not love,” he says. “They’re just too dumb to disagree.”

“Oh, shut up,” says the romantic in me.

“Combined IQ of eighty,” says the cynic. “Duller than a tenpin.”

“Oh, please. They’re cute,” says the romantic. “Imagine what they must have gone through.” While imagining a 1960’s wedding, parallel careers, a few kids out there in the world now raising a small horde of grandkids. She took a few years off to play stay-at-home mom, he knuckled down with extra work to pay the bills.

“I’m trying,” says the cynic. “No, sorry, I don’t see it.”

All I can think of is to ask him to shut up again. He does.

And does.

Until I have to admit to myself that I really haven’t a clue about these people. Their holding hands and sort of leaning on each other makes them look like what I hope they are, but short of “Excuse me, mind if I ask you a question” I really don’t have a clue.

“My point exactly,” says the cynic.

He’s quite a bit taller than she is, or to be exact, she is quite a bit shorter than he is. I’ve known a few couples where the difference in height, to me, seemed like a problem, must have been a problem.

Our across-the landing neighbors in one of the small towns where I grew up differed by a foot and a half. He was past six feet, she almost a midget. But what she lacked in height she made up in vitriol. Man, could she lay it on.

I got on her wrong side once or twice (I was only six or so) and that was not habit-forming. About ten years later I learned that he just up and left one day — silently filling up and up and up over the years until finally one day overflowing. In retrospect, I can’t say that I blame him. He just ran out of tolerance is how I see it. Then again, I really haven’t a clue.

I once knew a barely five-feet tall woman who could scream the whiskers off of anyone, male or female, of any height. I stayed on her good side but I cringed when I heard her making herself heard across great distances even though only a foot away from the poor, stunned, trying to find his/her bearings victim. That so much anger could even fit in such a small person still amazes me.

Bu these people, they both look not only happy but healthy, this old best-friend, still-in-love couple holding hands. The word that just fell out of a cloud and bounced just right is “blessed”. That’s what they looked like, blessed.

Not talking though, just walking, looking straight ahead (him), slightly downward, as if inspecting the road (her). Perhaps they’ve already said everything that needed, or even could, be said. Perhaps silence was their preferred language.

“Too stupid to think of something to say,” says the cynic.

“Really, I wish you’d shut up,” says the romantic. “They know each other so well that they talk with their merged hands.”

The cynic shakes his head but doesn’t come up with a riposte before I add, “Love’s telepathy.”

That cut the cynic off at the pass, I think, for now he’s gone dead quiet. Can’t even hear him breathing. Perhaps he’s left, or fallen asleep — he sleeps a lot these days which I’m grateful for. In fact, I think I just heard him slam the door, one of those there’s-no-reasoning-with-you slams. Well, good riddance. I much prefer the romantic.

© Wolfstuff

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