Will you marry me?

The car is silent as they drive back home with the view of the ocean. She is wiping the tears from her cheeks.

“You want some tea?” he asks as they enter the kitchen.

Later, as they sit on the front porch watching the waves: “We are in the front of the line, every year the numbers decrease behind us as our age increase”, he says in a calm voice.

“I wonder how it will be?” she asks, “They say by the end a beloved one appears, helping you to walk through the valley of death.”

“I heard that some see a bright light, others the Serengeti… How can we know?”

“We cannot,” she says and puts the cup on the table next to her, “thank you for the tea.”

Seagulls circle above the ever blue, breaking waves, dive in to catch a fish and use their wings to carry their meal ashore. As the sun sets the ocean turns into a deep ochre and red, with fishermen casting their bait against the incoming tide.

“You’re cold,” he says and extends a hand to help her out of the chair.

They take the cups and walk toward the kitchen where the table is laid with two plates for a simple meal of homemade marmalade and fresh 12 grain bread.

“If you have to depart before I go, will you at least say goodbye?” she asks.

Her hands are contorted by arthritis, he gently takes them into his own and together they close their eyes, bow their heads as he asks to console the family of the deceased.

She takes the bottle of marmalade and turns it towards the light: “The oranges will be ripe soon. I hope Betty next door can come again to help with the peeling this year. We must remember to buy some sugar and new lids once we get to the store.”

He nods, “Every year the marmalade is more perfect than the year before.”

They continue in silence until he concludes: “Our life together was like climbing a mountain. We had some difficult times.”

She looks at him, sees the grey hair and the kindness that softness his brown eyes.

“You have marmalade on your moustache,” she replies.

He gets up from the table and pulls open the curtains, “will you come and stand with me?”

“Why?” she asks, but agrees as she slowly gets up from her chair.

The man in the front line takes his wife and holds her in his arms while looking at the brightness of the star covered sky.

“Looking back at our lives together, do you think you would have said ‘yes’ when I asked you back, that evening of February, second 1953 – ‘will you marry me?’”

“Some say dying is like returning to the mother’s womb where time and emotions have no place, it becomes a dimension, called eternity.”

“Might be,” he says, “but answer me?”

She smiles, “looking back at our lives together, do you have any regrets for asking that question on the night of February way back in 1953?”

 In their backyard grows an orange tree.