Chapter Forty-Seven - We Grew Old and Still Laughed at Fart Jokes

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

We Grew Old and Still Laughed at Fart Jokes

WE DIDN’T BECOME graceful with age.

We became goofy.

We made fun of each other’s back pain.
We fell asleep during movies and denied it.
We forgot names mid-sentence.
We used the same inside jokes for decades and laughed like it was the first time every time.

There were days we creaked more than we walked.
Days we bickered about things like thermostat settings and what day the trash went out.
Days we swore we were too old for this.

And then we’d start laughing in the kitchen because one of us let one rip and the other said, “You’re lucky I still find you hot.”

We grew old like it was a long-running bit.
Like we couldn’t believe we still got to wake up next to each other.
Like every wrinkle was a punchline we both earned.

We told stories the kids had heard a hundred times.
We got them wrong.
We corrected each other.
Then we told them again next week.

She wore the same robe every morning.
I brewed the coffee a little weaker than she liked it, and she never let me forget it.

We still held hands.
Not because we were sentimental.
Because sometimes one of us needed help standing up.

And because it just felt right.

Our bed got quieter.
Our house got smaller.
But our love?
It never shrank.

It grew louder in the silence.
Fuller in the stillness.

Some nights I’d find her asleep in her chair, book on her chest, glasses slipping.
And I’d just watch her for a moment.

Because damn.

That was her.
After all these years.
Still her.

Still the funniest, kindest, strongest person I’d ever known.
Still the one.

We grew old and never got tired of each other.

Because real love?

It ages like a good joke.
Always funny.
Always familiar.
Always the best part of your day.