HE STORY ends there, so I close the notebook, remove my glasses and wipe my eyes. I look at her now that I have finished, but she does not look back. Instead she is staring out of the window at the courtyard, where friends and family meet.

I read to her this morning, as I do every morning, because it is something I must do. Not for duty—although I suppose a case could be made for this—but for another, more romantic reason. I wish I could explain it more fully right now, but it's still early, and talking about romance isn't really possible before lunch any more, at least not for me. Besides, I have no idea how it's going to turn out, and to be honest; I'd rather not get my hopes up.

We spend every day together now, but our nights are spent alone. The doctors tell me that I'm not allowed to see her after dark. I understand the reasons, and though I agree with them completely I sometimes break the rules. Late at night when my mood is right, I will sneak from my room and go to hers and watch her while she sleeps. Of this she knows nothing. I'll come in and see her breathe and know that, had it not been for her, I would never have married.

And when I look at her face, a face I know better than my own, I know that I have meant as much to her. And that means more to me than I could ever hope to explain.

Sometimes, when I am standing there, I think about how lucky I am to have been married to her for almost forty-nine years. Next month it will be that long. She heard me snore for the first forty-five, but since then we have slept in separate rooms. I do not sleep well without her. I toss and turn and yearn for her warmth and lie there most of the night, eyes open wide, watching the shadows dance across the ceilings like tumbleweeds rolling across the desert. I sleep two hours if I am lucky, and still I wake before dawn.

I shuffle towards her and sit in the chair beside her bed. My back aches when I sit. I must get a new cushion for this chair, I remind myself for the hundredth time. I reach for her hand and take it, bony and fragile. It feels nice. She responds with a twitch, and gradually her thumb begins to rub my finger softly. I do not speak until she does; this I have learned. Most days I sit in silence until the sun goes down.

Minutes pass before she finally turns to me. She is crying. I smile and release her hand, then reach in my pocket. I take out a handkerchief and wipe at her tears. She looks at me as I do so, and I wonder what she is thinking.

“That was a beautiful story.”

A light rain begins to fall. Little drops tap gently on the window. I take her hand again. It is going to be a good day, a very good day. A magical day. I smile, I can't help it.

“Yes, it is,” I tell her.

“Did you write it?” she asks, her voice like a whisper.

“Yes,” I answer.

She turns towards the nightstand. Her medicine is in a little cup. Mine too. Little pills, colours like a rainbow so we won't forget to take them. They bring mine here to her room now, even though they're not supposed to.

“I've heard it before, haven't I?”

“Yes,” I say again, just as I do every time. I have learned to be patient.

She studies my face. Her eyes are as green as ocean waves.

“It makes me feel less afraid,” she says.

“I know.” I nod, rocking my head softly.

She turns away, and I wait some more. She releases my hand and reaches for her water glass. She takes a sip.

“Is it a true story?” She sits up a little in her bed and takes another drink. Her body is still strong. “I mean, did you know these people?”

“Yes,” I say again. I could say more, but usually I don't. She is still beautiful.

She asks the obvious. “Well, which one did she finally marry?”

I answer, “The one who was right for her.”

“Which one was that?”

I smile. “You'll know,” I say quietly, “by the end of the day. You'll know.”

She does not question me further. Instead she begins to fidget. She is thinking of a way to ask me another question, though she isn't sure how to do it.

A bird starts to sing outside the window and we both turn our heads. We sit quietly for a while, enjoying something beautiful together. Then it is lost, and she sighs. “I have to ask you something else,” she says.

“Whatever it is, I'll try to answer.”

“It's hard, though.”

She does not look at me and I cannot see her eyes. This is how she hides her thoughts. Some things never change.

“Take your time,” I say. I know what she will ask.

Finally she turns to me and looks into my eyes. She offers a gentle smile, the kind you share with a child, not a lover.

“I don't want to hurt your feelings because you've been so nice to me, but...”

I wait. Her words will hurt me. They will tear a piece from my heart and leave a scar.

“Who are you?”

WE HAVE LIVED at Creekside Extended Care Facility for three years now. It was her decision to come here, partly because it was near our home, but also because she thought it would be easier for me. We boarded up our home because neither of us could bear to sell it, signed some papers, and received a place to live and die in exchange for some of the freedom for which we had worked a lifetime.

She was right to do this, of course. There is no way I could have made it alone, for sickness has come to us, both of us. We are in the final minutes in the day of our lives, and the clock is ticking. Loudly. I wonder if I am the only one who can hear it.

A throbbing pain courses through my fingers, and it reminds me that we have not held hands with fingers interlocked since we moved here. I am sad about this, but it is my fault, not hers. It is arthritis in the worst form, rheumatoid and advanced. My hands are misshapen and grotesque now, and they throb through most of my waking hours. But every day I take her hands despite the pain, and I do my best to hold them because that is what she wants me to do.

Although the Bible says man can live to be a hundred and twenty, I don't want to, and I don't think my body would make it even if I did. It is falling apart, steady erosion on the inside and at the joints. My kidneys are beginning to fail and my heart rate is decreasing every month. Worse, I have cancer again, this time of the prostate. This is my third bout with the unseen enemy, and it will take me eventually, though not till I say it is time. The doctors are worried about me, but I am not. I have no time for worry in this twilight of my life.

Of our five children, four are still living, and though it is hard for them to visit, they come often, and for this I am thankful. But even when they aren't here, they come alive in my mind every day, each of them, and they bring to mind the smiles and tears that come with raising a family. A dozen pictures line the walls of my room. They are my heritage, my contribution to the world. I am very proud. Sometimes I wonder what my wife thinks of them as she dreams, or if she thinks of them at all, or if she even dreams. There is so much about her I don't understand any more.

“My name,” I say, “is Duke.” I have always been a John Wayne fan.

“Duke,” she whispers to herself, “Duke.” She thinks for a moment, her forehead wrinkled, her eyes serious.

“Yes,” I say, “I'm here for you.” And always will be, I think to myself.

She flushes with my answer. Her eyes become wet and red, and tears begin to fall. My heart aches for her, and I wish for the thousandth time that there was something I could do.

She says, “I'm sorry. I don't understand anything that's happening to me right now. Even you. When I listen to you talk I feel like I should know you, but I don't. I don't even know my name.” She wipes at her tears and says, “Help me, Duke, help me remember who I am. Or at least, who I was. I feel so lost.”

I answer from my heart, but I lie to her about her name. As I have about my own. There is a reason for this.

“You are Hannah, a lover of life, a strength to those who shared in your friendships. You are a dream, a creator of happiness, an artist who has touched a thousand souls. You've led a full life and wanted for nothing, because your needs are spiritual and you have only to look inside you. You are kind and loyal, and you are able to see beauty where others do not. You are a teacher of wonderful lessons, a dreamer of better things.”

She does not respond. Instead she stares 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 it to her waist. She stares at the hardened knots that deform my fingers and caresses them 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 crisp and the goslings are waiting. It's beautiful today.” I am staring at her as I say these last few words. She blushes. It makes me feel young again.

SHE WAS FAMOUS, of course. One of the best southern painters of the twentieth century, some said, and I was, and am, proud of her. Unlike me, who struggled to write even the simplest of verses, my wife could create beauty as easily as the Lord created the earth. Her paintings are in museums around the world, but I have kept only two for myself. The first one she ever gave me and the last one. They hang in my room, and late at night I sit and stare and sometimes cry when I look at them. I don't know why.

And so the years passed. We led our lives, working, painting, raising children, loving each other. I see photos of Christmases, family trips, of graduations and of weddings. I see grandchildren and happy faces. I see photos of us, our hair growing whiter, the lines in our faces deeper. A lifetime that seems so typical, yet uncommon.

We could not foresee the future, but then who can? I do not live now as I expected to. But I am not bitter. Our lives can't be measured by our final years, of this I am sure, and I guess I should have known what lay ahead. Looking back, I suppose it seems obvious, but at first I thought her confusion understandable and not unique. She would forget where she placed her keys, but who has not done that? She would forget a neighbour's name, but not someone we knew well or with whom we socialized. Sometimes she would write the wrong year when she made out her cheques, but again I dismissed it as 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 wheel because 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 and said, “Oh God, what's happening to me? Please help me.” A knot twisted in my stomach, but I dared not think the worst.

Six days later the doctor saw her and began a series of tests. I did not understand them 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 next day. That day was the longest day I have ever spent.

Finally he called us both into his office and sat us down. She held my arm confidently, but I remember clearly that my own hands were shaking.

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

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, almost to herself: "Oh, Noah . . . Noah . . .”

And tears started to fall. It is a barren disease, as empty and lifeless as a desert. It is a thief of hearts and souls and memories. I did not know what to say to her as she sobbed on my bosom, so I simply held her and rocked her back and forth.

The doctor was grim. He was a good man, and this was hard for him. He was younger than my youngest, and I felt my age in his presence.

We rocked to and fro, and Allie, my dream, my timeless beauty, told me she was sorry. I knew there was nothing to forgive, and I whispered in her ear. “Everything will be fine,” I whispered, but inside I was afraid. I was a hollow man with nothing to offer.

I remember only bits and pieces of Dr. Barnwell's continuing explanation.

“It's a degenerative brain disorder affecting memory and personality. . . there is no cure or therapy . . . there's no way to tell how fast it will progress ... it differs from person to person. ... I wish I knew more. . . . Some days will be better than others. ... It will grow worse with the passage of time. . . . I'm sorry . . .”

Everyone was sorry. Our children were brokenhearted, our friends were scared for themselves. 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 house and 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 she was finished, she began to write. Letters to friends and children. Letters to brothers and sisters and cousins. Letters to nieces, nephews and neighbours. And a letter to me.

I read it sometimes when I am in the mood and, when I do, I am reminded of Allie on cold winter evenings, seated by a roaring fire with a glass of wine at her side, reading the letters I had written to her over the years. She kept them, these letters, and now I keep them, for she made me promise to do so. She said I would know what to do with them. She was right; I find I enjoy reading bits and pieces of them just as she used to. They intrigue me, for when I sift through them I realize that romance and passion are possible at any age. I see Allie now and know I've never loved her more, but as I read the letters, I come to understand that I have always felt the same way.

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

I read an excerpt:

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

I put it aside and found another, this one from a cold evening thirty-nine years ago:

Sitting next to you, while our youngest daughter sang off-key in the school Christmas show, I looked at you and saw a pride that comes only to those who feel deeply in their hearts, and I knew that no man could be luckier than me.

And after our son died, the one who resembled his mother . . . It was the hardest time we ever went through, and the words still ring true today:

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

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

They went on, this correspondence of life and love, and I read dozens more, some painful, most heart-warming. By three o'clock I was tired, but I had reached the bottom of the stack. There was one letter remaining, the last one I wrote to her, and by then I knew I had to keep going. I lifted the seal and removed both pages. I put the second page aside and moved the first page into better light and began to read:

My dearest Allie,

The porch is silent except for the sounds that float from the shadows, and for once I am at a loss for words. It is a strange experience for me, for when I think of you and the life we have shared, there is much to remember. A lifetime of memories. But to put it into words? I am not a poet, and yet a poem is 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 coffee this morning. Kate was there, and so was Jane, and they both became quiet when I walked into the kitchen. I saw they'd been crying, and without a word I sat myself beside them at the table and held, their hands. And when I looked at them, I saw you from so long-ago, the day we said goodbye. They resemble you and how you were then, beautiful and sensitive and wounded with the hurt that comes when something special is taken away. And for a reason I'm not sure 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 the children 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 with smiles when they heard about the canoe ride, and sitting in front of the fire with the storm raging outside. I told them about your mother warning us about Lon the next day—they seemed as surprised as we were—and yes, I even told them what happened later that day, after you went back to town.

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

I know you cared for him. And his reaction proves to me he cared for you as well. Even as you explained that you had always loved me, and that it wouldn't be fair to him, he did not release your hand. I know he was hurt and angry, and tried for almost an hour to change your mind, but when you stood firm and said, “I can't go back with you, I'm so sorry,” he knew that your decision had been made. You said he simply nodded and the two of you sat together for a long time without speaking. I have always wondered what he was thinking as he sat with you, but I'm sure it was the same way I felt only a few hours before. And when he finally walked you to your car, you said he told you that I was a lucky man. He behaved as a gentleman would, and I understood then why your choice was so hard.

I remember that when I finished the story, the room was quiet until Kate finally stood to embrace me. “Oh, Daddy,” she said with tears in her eyes, and though I expected to answer their questions, they did not ask any. Instead, they gave me something much more special. For the next four hours, each of them told me how much the two of us had meant to them growing up. One by one, they told stories about things I had long since forgotten. And by the end I was crying, because I realized how well we had done with raising them. I was so proud of them, and proud of you, and happy about the life we have led. And nothing will ever take that away. Nothing. I only wish you could have been here to enjoy it with me.

After they left, I rocked in silence, thinking back on our life together. You are always here with me when I do so, at least in my heart, and it is impossible for me to remember a time when you were not a part of me. I do not know who I would have become had you never come back to me that day.

I love you, Allie. I am who I am because of you. You are every reason, every hope and every dream I've ever had, and no matter what happens to us in the future, every day we are together is the greatest day of my life. I will always be yours.

And, my darling, you will always be mine.

Noah

I put the pages aside and remember sitting with Allie on our porch when she read this letter for the first time. It was late afternoon and the last remnants of the day were fading. The sky was slowly changing colour, and as I watched the sun go down I remember thinking about that brief, flickering moment when day suddenly turns into night. Dusk, I realized, is just an illusion, because the sun is either above the horizon or below it. And that means that day and night are linked in a way that few things are; there cannot be one without the other, yet they cannot exist at the same time. How would it feel, I remember wondering, to be always together, yet forever apart? I know the answer now. I know what it's like to be day and night now; always together, forever apart.

THERE IS BEAUTY where we sit this afternoon, Allie and I. This is the pinnacle of my life. The birds, the geese, float on the cool water, which reflects bits and pieces of their colours and makes them seem larger than they really are. Allie too is taken in by their wonder, and little by little we get to know each other again.

“It's good to talk to you. I find that I miss it, even when it hasn't been that long.” I am sincere and she knows this, but she is still wary. I am a stranger.

“Is this something we do often?” she asks. “Do we sit here and watch the birds a lot? I mean, do we know each other well?”

“Yes and no. I think everyone has secrets, but we have been acquainted for years.”

She looks to her hands, then mine. She thinks about this for a moment, her face at such an angle that she looks young again. We do not wear our rings. Again, there is a reason for this. She asks: “Were you ever married?”

I nod. “Yes.”

“What was she like?”

I tell the truth. “She was my dream. She made me who I am, and holding her in my arms was more natural to me than my own heartbeat. I think about her all the time. Even now, when I'm sitting here, I think about her. There could never have been another.”

She takes this in. I don't know how she feels about this. Finally she speaks softly, her voice angelic, sensual. I wonder if she knows I think these things. “Is she dead?”

“My wife is alive in my heart. And she always will be,” I answer.

“You still love her, don't you?”

“Of course. But I love many things. I love to sit here with you. I love to watch the osprey swoop towards the creek and find its dinner. I love to share the beauty of this place with someone I care about.”

She is quiet for a moment. She looks away so I can't see her face. It has been her habit for years. “Why are you doing this?” No fear, just curiosity. This is good. I know what she means, but I ask anyway.

“What?”

“Why are you spending the day with me?”

I smile. “I'm here because this is where I'm supposed to be. It's not complicated. Both you and I are enjoying ourselves. Don't dismiss my time with you—it's not wasted. It's what I want. I sit here and we talk and I think to myself, “What could be better than what I am doing now?”

She looks me in the eyes, and for a moment, just a moment, her eyes twinkle. A slight smile forms on her lips. “I like being with you, but if getting me intrigued is what you're after you've succeeded. I admit I enjoy your company, but I know nothing about you. I don't expect you to tell me your life story, but why are you so mysterious?”

“I read once that women love mysterious strangers.”

“See, you haven't really answered the question. You haven't answered most of my questions. You didn't even tell me how the story ended this morning.”

I shrug. We sit quietly for a while. Finally I ask: “Is it true that women love mysterious strangers?”

She thinks about this and laughs. Then she answers as I would: “I think some women do.”

“Do you?”

“Now don't go putting me on the spot. I don't know you well enough for that.” She is teasing me and I enjoy it.

We sit and watch the world around us. This has taken us a lifetime to learn. It seems only the old are able to sit next to one another and not say anything and still feel content. The young, brash and impatient, must always break the silence. It is a waste, for silence is pure. Silence is holy. It draws people together because only those who are comfortable with each other can sit without speaking. This is the great paradox.

Time passes, and gradually our breathing begins to coincide. Deep breaths, relaxed breaths, and there is a moment when she dozes off, like those comfortable with one another often do. When she wakes, a miracle: “Do you see that bird?” She points to it, and I strain my eyes. It is a wonder I can see it, but I can because the sun is bright.

“Caspian stern,” I say softly, and we devote our attention to it as it glides over Brices Creek. And, like an old habit rediscovered, when I lower my arm, I put my hand on her knee and she doesn't make me move it.

SHE IS RIGHT about my evasiveness. On days like these, when only her memory is gone, I am vague in my answers because I've hurt my wife unintentionally with careless slips of my tongue many times these past few years, and I am determined not to let it happen again. So I limit myself and answer only what is asked, to limit the pain. There are days she never learns of her children or that we are married. I am sorry for this, but I will not change.

Does this make me dishonest? Perhaps, but I have seen her crushed by the waterfall of information that is her life. Could I look myself in the mirror without red eyes and quivering jaw and know I have forgotten all that was important to me? I could not and neither can she, for when this odyssey began, that is how I began. Her life, her marriage, her children. Her friends and her work.

The days were hard on both of us. I was an encyclopedia, an object without feeling, of the whos, whats and wheres in her life, when in reality it is the whys, the things I did not know and could not answer, that make it all worth while. She would stare at pictures of forgotten offspring, hold paintbrushes that inspired nothing, and read love letters that brought back no joy. She would weaken over the hours, growing paler, becoming bitter and ending the day worse than when it began. Our days were lost and so was she.

So I changed. I learned what is obvious to a child. That life is simply a collection of little lives, each lived one day at a time. That each day should be spent finding beauty in flowers and poetry and talking to animals. That a day spent with dreaming and sunsets and refreshing breezes cannot be bettered. But most of all, I learned that life is for sitting on benches next to ancient creeks with my hand on her knee and sometimes, on good days, for falling in love.

“WHAT ARE you thinking?” she asks.

It is now dusk. We have left our bench and are shuffling along lighted paths that wind their way around this complex. She is holding my arm and I am her escort. It is her idea to do this. Perhaps she is charmed by me. Perhaps she wants to keep me from falling. Either way, I am smiling to myself.

“I'm thinking about you.”

She makes no response to this except to squeeze my arm, and I can tell she likes what I said. Our life together has enabled me to see the clues, even if she does not know them herself. I go on: “I know you can't remember who you are, but I can, and I find that when I look at you it makes me feel good.”

She taps my arm and smiles. “You're a kind man with a loving heart. I hope I enjoyed you as much before as I do now.”

I think about this as we walk in silence, holding each other, past the rooms, past the courtyard. We come to the garden, mainly wild flowers, and I stop her. I pick a bundle—red, pink, yellow, violet. I give them to her, and she brings them to her nose. She smells them with eyes closed and she whispers, “They're beautiful.” We resume our walk, me in one hand, the flowers in another. People watch us, for we are a walking miracle, or so I am told. It is true in a way.

By the time we reach the doorway, I am tired. She knows this, so she stops me with her hand and makes me face her. I do, and I realize how hunched over I have become. She and I are now level. Sometimes I am glad she doesn't know how much I have changed. She turns to me and stares for a long time.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

“I don't want to forget you or this day, and I'm trying to keep your memory alive.”

Will it work this time? I wonder, then know it will not. It can't. I do not tell her my thoughts, though. I smile instead because her words are sweet.

“Thank you,” I say.

“I mean it. I don't want to forget you again. You're very special to me. I don't know what I would have done without you today.”

My throat closes a little. There is emotion behind her words, the emotions I feel whenever I think of her. I know this is why I live, and I love her dearly at this moment. How I wish I were strong enough to carry her in my arms to paradise.

“Don't try to say anything,” she tells me. “Let's just feel the moment.”

And I do, and I feel heaven.

HER DISEASE is worse now than it was in the beginning, though Allie is different from most. There are three others with the disease here, and they are the sum of my practical experience of it. They, unlike Allie, are in the most advanced stages of Alzheimer's and are almost completely lost. They wake up hallucinating and confused. They repeat themselves over and over. Seldom do they recognize the people who love them. It is a trying disease, and this is why it is hard for their children and mine to visit.

Allie, of course, has her own problems. She is terribly afraid in the mornings and cries inconsolably. She sees tiny people, like gnomes, I think, watching her, and she screams at them to get away. She bathes willingly but will not eat regularly. She is thin now, much too thin in my opinion, and on good days I do my best to fatten her up.

But this is where the similarity ends. This is why Allie is considered a miracle, because sometimes, just sometimes, after I read to her, her condition isn't so bad. There is no explanation for this. “It's impossible,” the doctors say, “she cannot have Alzheimer's.” But she does. On most days and every morning there can be no doubt.

But why, then, is her condition different? Why does she sometimes change after I read? I tell the doctors the reason—I know it in my heart, but I am not believed. Four times specialists have travelled from Chapel Hill to find the answer. Four times they have left without understanding. I tell them, “You can't possibly understand it if you use only your science training and your books,” but they shake their heads and answer: “Alzheimer's does not work like this. With her condition, it's just not possible to have a conversation or improve as the day goes on. Ever.”

But she does. Not every day, not most of the time, and definitely less than she used to. But sometimes. And all that is gone on these days is her memory, as if she has amnesia. Her emotions are normal, her thoughts are normal. And these are the days that I know I am doing right.

DINNER IS WAITING in her room when we return. It has been arranged for us to eat here, as it always is on days like these, and once again I could ask for no more. The people here are good to me and I am thankful.

The lights are dimmed, the room is lit by two candles on the table where we will sit, and music is playing softly in the background. The cups and plates are plastic and the carafe is filled with apple juice, but rules are rules and she doesn't seem to care.

She inhales slightly at the sight. Her eyes are wide. “Did you do this?”

I nod and she walks into the room.

“It looks beautiful.”

I offer my arm in escort and lead her to the window. She doesn't release it when we get there. Her touch is nice, and we stand close together on this crystal springtime evening. The window is open slightly and I feel a breeze as it fans my cheek. The moon has risen and we watch for a long time as the evening sky unfolds.

“I've never seen anything so beautiful, I'm sure of it,” she says.

“I haven't, either,” I say, but I am looking at her. She knows what I mean and I see her smile.

A moment later she whispers: “I think I know who Allie went with at the end of the story.”

“Who?”

“She went with Noah.”

“You're sure?”

“Absolutely.”

I smile and nod. “Yes, she did,” I say softly, and she smiles back, her face radiant.

She sits and I sit opposite her. She offers her hand across the table and I take it in mine, and I feel her thumb begin to move as it did so many years ago. I stare at her for a long time, living and reliving the moments of my life, remembering it all and making it real. I feel my throat begin to tighten and once again I realize how much I love her.

My voice is shaky when I finally speak.

“You're so beautiful,” I say. I can see in her eyes that she knows how I feel about her and what I really mean by my words.

She does not respond. Instead she lowers her eyes and I wonder what she's thinking. She gives me no clues and I gently squeeze her hand. I wait. I know her heart and I know I'm almost there.

And then a miracle that proves me right. As Glenn Miller plays softly in a candlelit room, I watch as she gradually gives in to the feelings inside her. I see a warm smile begin to form on her lips, the kind that makes it all worth while, and I watch as she raises her hazy eyes to mine. She pulls my hand towards her. “You're wonderful...” she says softly, and at that moment she falls in love with me, too; this I know, for I have seen the signs a thousand times.

She says nothing else right away, she doesn't have to, and she gives me a look from another lifetime that makes me whole again. I smile back, with as much passion as I can muster, and we stare at each other with the feelings inside us rolling like ocean waves. I look about the room, then back at Allie, and the way she's looking at me makes me warm. And suddenly I feel young again. I'm no longer cold or aching, or hunched over or almost blind with cataracts. I'm strong and proud and the luckiest man alive, and I keep on feeling that way for a long time.

By the time the candles have burned down a third, I am ready to break the silence. I say, “I love you deeply and I hope you know that.”

“Of course I do,” she says. “I've always loved you, Noah.”

Noah, I hear again. The word echoes in my head. Noah . . . Noah. She knows, I think to myself, she knows who I am . . .

She knows. . . . Such a tiny thing, this knowledge, but for me it is a gift from God, and I feel our lifetime together, holding her, loving her, and being with her through the best years of my life.

She murmurs, "Noah . . . my sweet Noah ...”

And I, who could not accept the doctors' words, have triumphed again, at least for a moment. I give up the pretence of mystery, and I kiss her hand and bring it to my cheek and whisper in her ear: “You are the greatest thing that has ever happened to me.”

“Oh . . . Noah,” she says with tears in her eyes, “I love you, too.”

IF ONLY IT would end like this, I would be a happy man.

But it won't. Of this I'm sure, for as time slips by I begin to see the signs of concern in her face.

“What's wrong?” I ask, and her answer comes softly.

“I'm so afraid. I'm afraid of forgetting you again. It isn't fair . . . I just can't bear to give this up.” Her voice breaks as she finishes, but I don't know what to say. I know the evening is coming to an end and there is nothing I can do to stop the inevitable. In this I am a failure.

I finally tell her: “I'll never leave you. What we have is for ever.”

She knows this is all I can do, for neither of us wants empty promises.

The crickets serenade us, and we begin to pick at our dinner. Neither one of us is hungry, but I lead by example and she follows me. She takes small bites and chews a long time, but I am glad to see her eat. She has lost too much weight in the past three months.

After dinner, I become afraid for I know the bell has tolled this evening. The sun has long since set and the thief is about to come, and there is nothing I can do to stop it. So I stare at her and wait and live a lifetime in these last remaining moments.

The clock ticks.

Nothing.

I take her in my arms and we hold each other.

Nothing.

I feel her tremble and I whisper in her ear.

Nothing.

I tell her for the last time this evening that I love her.

And the thief comes.

It always amazes me how quickly it happens. Even now, after all this time. For as she holds me, she begins to blink rapidly and shake her head. Then, turning towards the corner of the room, she stares for a long time, concern etched on her face.

No! my mind screams. Not yet! Not now . . . not when we're so close! Not tonight! Any night but tonight. . . . Please! I can't take it again! It isn't fair . . It isn't fair . . .

But once again, it is to no avail.

“Those people,” she finally says, pointing, “are staring at me. Please make them stop.”

The gnomes. A pit rises in my stomach, hard and full. My mouth goes dry and I feel my heart pounding. It is over, I know. This, the evening confusion that affects my wife, is the hardest part of all. For when it comes, she is gone, and sometimes I wonder whether she and I will ever love again.

“There's no one there, Allie,” I say, trying to fend off the inevitable.

She doesn't believe me. “They're staring at me. You can't see them?”

“No,” I say, and she thinks for a moment.

“Well, they're right there,” she says, “and they're staring at me.”

With that, she begins to talk to herself, and moments later, when I try to comfort her, she flinches with wide eyes.

“Who are you?” she cries in panic, her face becoming whiter. “What are you doing here?” She backs away from me, her hands in a defensive position, and then she says the most heartbreaking words of all. “Go away! Stay away from me!” She is pushing the gnomes away from her, terrified, oblivious of my presence.

I stand and cross the room to her bed. I am weak now, my legs ache, and there is a strange pain in my side. It is a struggle to press the button to call the nurses, for my fingers are throbbing and seem frozen together, but I finally succeed. They will be here soon now, I know, and I wait for them.

I sit by the bed with an aching back and start to cry as I pick up the notebook. I am tired now, so I sit, alone and apart from my wife. And when the nurses come in they see two people they must comfort. A woman shaking in fear and the old man who loves her more deeply than life itself crying softly in the corner, his face in his hands.

BY THE following week, my life had pretty much returned to normal. Or at least as normal as my life could be. Reading to Allie, who was unable to recognize me at any time, reading to others, wandering the halls. Lying awake at night and sitting by my heater in the morning. I found a strange comfort in the predictability of my life.

On a cool, foggy morning eight days after she and I had spent our day together, I woke early, as is my custom, and pottered around my desk, alternately looking at photographs and reading letters written many years before. At least I tried to. I couldn't concentrate too well because I had a headache, so I put them aside and went to sit in my chair by the window to watch the sun come up. Allie would be awake in a couple of hours, I knew, and I wanted to be refreshed, for reading all day would only make my head hurt more.

I closed my eyes for a few minutes then, opening them, I watched my old friend, the creek, roll by my window. Unlike Allie I had been given a room where I could see it, and it has never failed to inspire me. It is a contradiction this creek—a hundred thousand years old but renewed with each rainfall. It is life, I think, to watch the water. A man can learn so many things.

It happened as I sat in the chair, just as the sun peeped over the horizon. My hand, I noticed, started to tingle, something it had never done before. I started to lift it, but I was forced to stop when my head pounded again, this time hard, almost as if I had been hit in the head with a hammer. I closed my eyes tightly. My hand stopped tingling and began to go numb, as if my nerves had been severed somewhere on my lower arm. A shooting pain rocked my head and seemed to flow down my neck and into every cell of my body, like a tidal wave, crushing and wasting everything in its path.

I lost my sight and I heard what sounded like a train roaring inches from my head, and I knew that I was having a stroke. The pain coursed through my body like a lightning bolt, and in my last remaining moments of consciousness I pictured Allie, lying in her bed, waiting for the story I would never read, lost and confused, completely and totally unable to help herself.

I WAS UNCONSCIOUS on and off for days, and in those moments when I was awake I found myself hooked to machines, two bags of fluid hanging near the bed. I could hear the faint hum of machines, sometimes making sounds I could not recognize, and found myself lulled to never-never land time and time again.

I could see the concern in the doctors' faces as they scanned the charts and adjusted the machines. Grim faces would prelude their predictions—“loss of speech, loss of movement, paralysis.” Another chart notation, another beep of a strange machine, and they'd leave, never knowing I heard every word. I tried not to think of these things afterwards, but instead concentrated on Allie, bringing a picture of her to my mind whenever I could. I tried to feel her touch, hear her voice, and when I did tears would fill my eyes because I didn't know if I would be able to hold her again. This was not how I'd imagined it would end. I'd always assumed I would go last.

I drifted in and out of consciousness for days until another foggy morning when my promise to Allie spurred my body once again. I opened my eyes and saw a room full of flowers, and their scent motivated me further. I looked for the buzzer, struggled to press it, and a nurse arrived thirty seconds later, followed closely by Dr. Barnwell.

“I'm thirsty,” I said with a raspy voice, and Dr. Barnwell smiled broadly.

“Welcome back,” he said, “I knew you'd make it.”

TWO WEEKS LATER I am able to leave the hospital, though I am only half a man now. The right side of my body is weaker than the left. This, they tell me, is good news, for the paralysis could have been total. Sometimes, it seems, I am surrounded by optimists.

The bad news is that my hands prevent me from using either my cane or wheelchair, so I must march now to my own unique cadence to keep upright. Not left-right-left as in my youth, or even the shuffle-shuffle of late, but rather slow-shuffle, slide-the-right, slow-shuffle. I am on an epic adventure now when I travel the halls.

When I return to my room, I know I will not sleep. I breathe deeply and smell the springtime fragrances that filter through the open window. There is a slight chill in the air and I find that I am invigorated by the change in temperature. Evelyn, one of the many nurses here, helps me to the chair by the window. She puts her hand on my shoulder and pats it gently. She says nothing, and by her silence I know that she is staring out of the window. Then she leans forward and tenderly kisses me on the cheek.

“It's good to have you back. Allie's missed you and so have the rest of us. We were all praying for you because it's just not the same around here when you're gone.” She smiles at me and touches my face before she leaves. I say nothing.

The stars are out tonight and the crickets are singing. As I sit, I wonder if anyone outside can see me, this prisoner of flesh. I search the courtyard, looking for signs of life, but there is nothing. Even the creek is still. In the darkness it looks like empty space and I find that I'm drawn to its mystery. I watch for hours, and as I do I see the reflection of clouds on the water. A storm is coming and in time the sky will turn silver, like dusk again.

Lightning cuts the wild sky and I feel my mind drift back. Who are we, Allie and I? Are we ancient ivy on a cypress tree, tendrils and branches intertwined so closely that we would both die if we were forced apart? Another bolt and the table beside me is lit enough to enable me to see a picture of Allie, the best one I have. I had it framed years ago in the hope that the glass would make it last for ever. I reach for it and hold it inches from my face. She was forty-one when it was taken, and she had never been more beautiful. There are so many things I want to ask her, but I know the picture won't answer, so I put it aside.

I finally stand and walk to my desk and turn on the lamp. This takes more effort than I think it will, and I am strained, so I do not return to the window seat. I sit down and spend a few minutes looking at the pictures on my desk. Family pictures, pictures of children and vacations. Pictures of Allie and me.

Since this seems to be a night of memories, I look for and find my wedding ring. It is in the top drawer, wrapped in tissue. I cannot wear it any more because my knuckles are swollen and my fingers lack for blood. I unwrap the tissue and find it unchanged. It is powerful—a symbol, a circle—and I know, I know, there could never have been another. I whisper aloud, “I am still yours, Allie, my queen, my timeless beauty. You are, and always have been, the best thing in my life.”

It is eleven thirty and I look for the letter she wrote to me, the one I read when the mood strikes me. I find it where I last left it. I open it and my hands begin to tremble:

Dear Noah,

I write this letter by candlelight as you lie sleeping in the bedroom we have shared since the day we were married. I see the flame beside me and it reminds me of another fire from decades ago, with me in your soft clothes, and I knew then we would always be together, even though I wavered the following day. My heart had been captured by a southern poet, and I knew inside that it had always been yours. Who was I to question a love that rode on shooting stars and roared like crashing waves? For that is what it was between us then and that is what it is today.

I remember coming back to you the day after my mother left. I was so scared because I was sure you would never forgive me for leaving you. I was shaking as I got out of the car, but you took it all away with your smile. “How about some coffee?” was all you said. And you never brought it up again in all our years together.

Nor did you question me when I would leave and walk alone during the next few days. When I came in with tears in my eyes, you always knew whether I needed you to hold me or to just let me be. I don't know how but you did, and you made it easier for me. Later, when we went to the small chapel and exchanged our rings and made our vows, I looked into your eyes and knew I had made the right decision. More than that, I knew I was foolish for ever considering someone else. I have never wavered since.

We had a wonderful life together, and I think about it a lot now. I close my eyes sometimes and see you with speckles of grey in your hair, sitting on the porch and playing your guitar while little ones play and clap to the music you create. “You're a better father than you know,” I tell you later, after the children are sleeping.

I love you for many things, especially your passions: love and poetry and fatherhood and friendship and beauty and nature. And I am glad you have taught the children these things, for I know their lives are better for it. They tell me how special you are to them, and it makes me feel like the luckiest woman alive.

You have taught me as well, and inspired me and supported me in my painting, and you will never know how much it has meant to me that you were always there, encouraging me. You understood my need for my own studio, my own space, and saw beyond the paint on my clothes and in my hair. I know it was not easy. It takes a man to do that, Noah, to live with something like that. And you have. For forty-five years now. Wonderful years.

You are my best friend as well as my lover, and I do not know which side of you I enjoy the most. I treasure each side, just as I have treasured our life together. You have something inside you, Noah, something beautiful and strong. Kindness, that's what I see when I look at you now, that's what everyone sees. Kindness.

I know you think me crazy for making us write our story before we finally leave our home, but I have my reasons and I thank you for your patience. I never told you why, but now I think it is time you knew. We have lived a lifetime most couples never know, and when I look at you I am frightened by the knowledge that all this will be ending soon. For we both know my prognosis. I worry more about you than I do about me, because I fear the pain I know you will go through. There are no words to express my sorrow for this.

I love you so deeply, so incredibly much, that I will find a way to come back to you despite my disease, I promise you that. And this is where the story comes in. When I am lost and lonely, read this story—just as you told it to the children—and know that in some way I will realize it's about us. And perhaps, just perhaps, we will find a way to be together again.

Please don't be angry with me on days I do not remember you— we both know they will come. Know that I will always love you, and no matter what happens, know that I have led the greatest life possible. My life with you.

Noah, wherever you are and whenever you read this, I love you. I love you deeply, my husband. You are, and always have been, my dream.

Allie

I put the letter aside, rise from my desk and find my slippers. I must sit to put them on. Then, standing, I cross the room and open my door. I peep down the hall and see Janice seated at the main desk which I must pass to get to Allie's room. At this hour I am not supposed to leave my room, and Janice is never one to bend the rules.

I wait to see if she will leave, but she does not and I grow impatient. I finally exit my room anyway, slow-shuffle, slide-the-right, slow-shuffle. It takes aeons to close the distance, but for some reason she does not see me approaching. I am a silent panther creeping through the jungle. In the end I am discovered, but I am not surprised. I stand before her.

“Noah,” she says, “what are you doing?”

“I'm taking a walk,” I say. “I can't sleep.”

“You know you're not supposed to do this.”

“I know.” I don't move, though. I am determined.

“You're not really going for a walk, are you? You're going to see Allie.”

“Yes,” I answer.

“Noah, you know what happened the last time you saw her at night. You shouldn't be doing this.”

“I miss her.”

“I know you do, but I can't let you see her.”

“It's our anniversary,” I say. This is true. It is one year before gold. Forty-nine years today.

“I see.” She looks away for a moment, and her voice becomes softer. I am surprised. She has never struck me as the sentimental type. “Noah, I've seen hundreds of couples struggle with grief, but I've never seen anyone handle it like you do. No one around here has ever seen anything like it.” She pauses for just a moment and her eyes begin to fill with tears. “I try to think what it's like for you, how you keep going day after day, but I can't imagine it. I don't know how you do it. You even beat her disease sometimes. Even though the doctors don't understand it, we nurses do. It's love—it's as simple as that. It's the most incredible thing I've ever seen.”

A lump has risen in my throat, and I am speechless.

“But, Noah, you're not supposed to do this, and I can't let you. So go back to your room.” Then, smiling, sniffling and shuffling some papers, she says: “Me, I'm going downstairs for some coffee. I won't be back to check on you for a while, so don't do anything foolish.”

She rises quickly, touches my arm and walks towards the stairs. She doesn't look back and suddenly I am alone. I look at where she had been sitting and see her coffee, a full cup, still steaming, and once again I learn that there are good people in the world.

As I begin my trek to Allie's room, I take tiny steps, and even at that pace my legs grow tired. I find I must touch the wall to keep from falling down. Lights buzz overhead, their fluorescent glow making my eyes ache, and I squint a little. I press on, and the movement forces blood through banished arteries. I feel myself becoming stronger with every step. A phone rings in the nurses' station, and I push forward so that I will not be caught. I am young and strong, with passion in my heart, and I will break down the door and lift her in my arms and carry her to paradise.

Who am I kidding? I lead a simple life now. I am foolish, an old man in love, a dreamer who dreams of nothing but reading to Allie and holding her whenever I can. I am a sinner with many faults and a man who believes in magic, but I am too old to change and too old to care.

When I finally reach her room my body is weak. My legs wobble, my eyes are blurred. I struggle with the knob and in the end it takes two hands and three truckloads of effort. The door opens and light from the hallway spills in, illuminating the bed where she sleeps.

She is lying with the covers halfway up. After a moment I see her roll to one side, and her noises bring back memories of happier times. She looks small in her bed.

I do not move, on this our anniversary, for almost a minute, and I long to tell her how I feel, but I stay quiet so I won't wake her. Besides, it is written on the slip of paper that I will slide under her pillow. It says:

Love, in these last and tender hours,

is sensitive and very pure

Come morning light with soft-lit powers

to awaken love that's ever sure.

I think I hear someone coming, so I enter her room and close the door behind me. Blackness descends and I cross her floor from memory and reach the window. I open the curtains, and the moon stares back, large and full, the guardian of the evening. Though I know I should not, I sit on her bed while I slip the note beneath her pillow. Then I reach across and gently touch her face. I stroke her hair, and I feel wonder, like a composer first discovering the works of Mozart. She stirs and opens her eyes and I suddenly regret my foolishness, for I know she will begin to cry and scream, for this is what she always does. But I feel an urge to attempt the impossible and lean towards her, our faces drawing closer.

When her lips meet mine, I feel a tingling I have never felt before, in all our years together, but I do not pull back. And suddenly a miracle, for I feel her mouth open and I discover a forgotten paradise, unchanged all this time, ageless like the stars. I feel the warmth of her body and allow myself to slip away, as I did so many years ago. I close my eyes and become a mighty ship in churning waters, strong and fearless, and she is my sails. I gently trace the outline of her cheek, then take her hand in mine. I kiss her lips, her cheeks, and listen as she takes a breath. She murmurs softly, “Oh, Noah . . . I've missed you.” Another miracle—the greatest of all! —and there's no way I can stop the tears as we begin to slip towards heaven itself. For at that moment, the world is full of wonder as I feel her fingers reach for the buttons on my shirt and slowly, ever so slowly, she begins to undo them one by one.