“Oh lord, I’ve had enough of these people out here.” She shuts the door firmly and lets out an exasperated breath. The afternoon sunlight peers in through the windows, accentuating the new wrinkles that frame her almond eyes. The days move quicker now than they used to; time passes quickly when you’re in love. She tells me she isn’t scared of aging and death, but I see the way she looks just above my head when she lies. Fifty years have gone by in an instant with her, she’s just as beautiful as the day we wed. “Which people in particular?” I reply, removing her snow-dusted coat. She doesn’t say anything at first, just looking down with a scowl. “I just don’t appreciate the company of anyone else but you, nobody has any decency these days.”

Genevieve goes off to work at the library each morning. I’ve been fortunate enough to retire, but she doesn’t seem to want to. She is exhausted every day, and done dealing with the public; but something prevents her from retiring. It’s the same reason she looks just above my head when she lies. Carrying piles of heavy books, scaling the endless granite stairs, even the chilling draft that fills the room- this job is just too much for her at this age. I never bring it up, in fear of offending her, or worse: scaring her. We don’t speak of the future much, we prefer to dwell on our past. What a beautiful past it was. I met her as a boy, her family moved into the raised ranch next door. Each day we’d walk down the dirt road and find ourselves beside the creek. She’d sit, admiring the bubbling water, but I could only ever admire her. Once we were old enough to marry, we found our own raised ranch and had four children. Genevieve only ever wanted one thing: a little girl to look after, to pour herself into. But we were blessed with four boys, and she poured herself into each of them instead. She’s always been hardworking- staying up late each night patching the boys’ grass-stained jeans or preparing the next day’s lunches. She has this sort of dedication that comes out in everything she does. It’s the sort of dedication that brings her into the library at 6:00 in the morning even if it doesn’t open until 9:00. Gen’s always put her all into things, even if the effort is never reciprocated. But continuing her job at the library isn’t about being hardworking, she’s simply in denial. Genevieve had tried to convince me there was no need to retire, she even tried to convince the boys they didn’t need to move out. She’s done everything she can to stop time from progressing, but she’ll never succeed.

After dinner we sit by the fireplace, the golden flames snapping like a dog’s teeth. “How are you really doing, hon?” I brush her gray hair over her shoulder with a loving hand. “I’m fine, I don’t know what you’re talking about.” And with one sentence, she builds up the emotional wall between us. I feel her shut down. She turns away, unable to face her own feelings. “I know there’s something, it’s okay to be vulnerable with your husband. Is it something at work?” There’s a beat of silence as she turns back to me slowly, her eyes welled up with tears. “I don’t want to talk about it, just let me enjoy the evening.” She’s always been stubborn. It was once endearing, but at this moment all I need is her honesty. I keep a gentle tone, knowing she’ll come around eventually. “You don’t need to lie to me. Or yourself. I think we both know there’s been an odd tension lingering recently. I just think we should face the fears we’re bottling up.” Her face softens, she lets a tear trickle down her pale skin. It lands on her wool sweater and absorbs into the fibers. I know that’s what Gen wants to do in tender moments like this, sink into the fibers of the couch below her. She guards her vulnerabilities like a mockingbird guarding her nest. “Don, I- I’m getting older. You’re getting older, our children are grown-” She’s unable to hold back her tears, they all fall into her sweater. I embrace my wife. “Yes, time has passed, but we’re still here. This is just a new chapter. We still have time, dear.” There’s another beat of silence, more comfortable than the last. She pulls her head away from my shoulder, “what if I lose you? Or what if you lose me? One of us will have to sit by this fire alone.” “Instead of ‘what if we die’, what if we live? I promise you, neither of us will be alone.” She nods, a smile creeps into her pursed lips. Her rough exterior has finally melted away.

As the fire dwindles, I study her lanky fingers. I find it beautiful: the way her skin has wrinkled around each knuckle, the way she’s painted her nails the same shade of red since we were teenagers. She has the perfect fingers to flip through books. “Just because you retire doesn’t make you too old to live, you know that right?” She gives a small laugh and puts her hand in mine. “I know. But someone has to renew these people’s library cards.” I love seeing her smile again. Soon, the fire is out. The charcoaled wood sits in a warm pile. And although the flame is gone, life continues.