Never Too Old

    "Let's count the stars," he said.

    "Count the stars? That's not possible!" she said.

    "Not possible?"

    "Right. Glad you agree. There are too many to count."

    "But, if we started now--look! There's one....and another...:

    She started laughing, muttering 13, 14, 15,16, under her breath, shouted out, "20! You're right--there's number 20. Do you see her?"

    "Her?"

    "Or him. Gender is hard to tell at this distance." She had turned away, so he couldn't see her face, couldn't see the grin, the-making-fun-of-him smile that he knew so well and, actually loved, not that he would tell her.

    "One hundred!" she shouted triumphantly, and started running across the field, towards more stars.

    "Two hundred!" Another triumphant shout. "Two hundred twenty-two!" Her favorite number-222.

    He laughed then and took off after her. She'd be easy to catch, easy to tackle from behind, easy to love. He should know. They'd been counting stars for years, after supper, after the dishes were done, and the kids in bed."Let's count stars," one of them would say and out they would go.

    "Two hundred twenty-two," she shouted again and that's when he caught her, when he always caught her, kissed her, and when they were younger, they had stayed there, laughing and kissing, not even pausing in the dewey field to look up at the sky.

    "The heavens," she always said.

    "Ah, the heavens," he said always. "The heavens....are here, right here."

    "Yes," she said. "Yes, under the star-filled..."

    "...heavenly..."

    "sky."