By Lion Prince
It's cold when we meet again.
I always feel the chill, nowadays.
She's seventy, I'm eighty,
and we both wear the same ring on the same finger now.
Mine's a little more rusty, of course.
We sit for a while, before I reach out to hold her hand.
"Thank you," I whisper.
She turns towards me, slightly surprised at the sudden break in silence.
"For always being here," I say.
She winks and gives my hand a light squeeze.
"Will you..." she stops, looking away hesitantly.
I squeeze her hand, urging her to continue.
She breathes out slowly, and looks at me again.
"Will you be here, next time?" she asks.
I smile and shake my head.
She sighs. "I see."
She takes a few moments before adding,
"I had a feeling this would be our last."
"How did you know?" I ask.
"I've started feeling the chill too," she says.
I nod, because I get it.
We both do.
"But you'll be okay," I say.
"But I'll be okay," she repeats.
I squeeze her hand again,
because I want her to understand what I'm about to say.
I want her to know that I love her.
"You've done well," I say.
"I've done well," she repeats.
"And I'm so proud of you," I say.
She nods, breaking out in a wide smile.
The best smile.
And we sit like this for a long time,
on our bench,