her your wife?”
I stared at the ring.
“Yes.”
I paused.
“That doesn’t mean I’m done being angry.”
The next morning, I walked into the kitchen and automatically grabbed two cups of coffee.
My hand stopped halfway.
For sixty years, I had made two cups.
Irene’s cup remained on the shelf.
I only made one.
Then I went into the living room.
I put our wedding photo back in a vertical position.
And I picked up my ring.
Irene had deprived me of the possibility of deciding, while she was still alive, what her truth meant.
I could never go back on that decision.
But I could choose how things unfolded.
I slipped the ring onto my finger.
Then I looked at his picture.
“I’m still angry with you,” I said.
I sat down in the chair next to her and drank my coffee.
Irene and I had laughed.
Discussed.
