We met for coffee the next week.
Two weeks later, he remembered something else.
At the end of that first coffee, he said, "You still tuck one hand under your chin when you laugh."
Two weeks later, he remembered something else.
"You wore yellow to graduation."
I stopped walking and looked at him.
"I did."
A month after that, over pie at the diner, he mentioned that I had once slipped a note into a chemistry book because I had been too shy to say hello out loud.
At my age, being remembered can feel like the sweetest thing in the world.
I laughed.
"My goodness. You remember that?"
He gave me a small shrug.
"Some things stay."
At my age, being remembered can feel like the sweetest thing in the world.
There was one odd moment early on.
I even gave him a spare key so he could warm my car on cold mornings before I came downstairs.
