Sunlight paints the hardwood floors.
She sits bedside and watches her husband sleep. The clock on the bedside table reads half past ten. She’s worried.
He’s usually up and had his coffee. By now he’d already be slipping into his flannel shirt and gardening khakis, mumbling about his underproducing fig tree.
But he isn’t. Not today. Not any day this week.
She closes her eyes, crosses her fingers. She prays that he’s okay, that this isn’t the start of something beyond their control.
She knows they’re both getting older. But not now.
She’s not ready for the ride to end.
