Anna.
A woman I hadn’t seen in forty years.
“Carol, what are you talking about? Anna who? What do you need me to forgive?”
She only shook her head, barely moving, her lips pressed together as though saying anything more might destroy something.
A nurse appeared in the doorway and quietly told me Carol needed to rest.
I leaned down, kissed my wife’s forehead, and walked into the hallway with my heart pounding against my ribs.
Three days later, Carol was gone.
The house on Maple Street felt hollow in a way I’d never known a house could feel.
Her reading glasses remained on the arm of the recliner.
Her unfinished crossword still rested on the kitchen table.
But all I could hear was her final request.
Find Anna.
Anna had been my first love.
In 1985, I asked her to marry me.
Her answer came in a letter.
