THIRTY-ONE. The number flits through my sleepy brain at 6:01 a.m. as my eyelids flicker and I begin to awaken on this May morning.
A cool breeze wafts through the open south window. Birds trill—the piercing voice of a cardinal, the methodical caw of a crow.
Traffic wheels by and a train rumbles blocks away.
I lie still, on my back, needing to get up and pee, but not wanting to disturb him. My husband. The man I married thirty-one years ago today.
I turn my head toward him, watch the gentle rise of his shoulders snugged beneath the polyester block quilt my Grandma Ida stitched for our wedding.
There is something comforting in lying here, watching him, knowing how much I love him. Still. After thirty-one years.
© Copyright 2013 Audrey Kletscher Helbling