in sickness

He holds her arm, her crumpled little arm, in the crook of his elbow. He orders for her, makes sure we know she's there, too, and asks that her cup be only half filled so her shaking hands won't spill it onto her lap. He curves his arm around her body, while she gazes and lists aimlessly, and he steers her safe to the table. He seats her, arranges her coat around her, makes sure she feels secure, and he brings her the coffee and muffins.

He always tells us the truth when we ask how are you doing? Some days he says, we're doing good. Other days it's well, we're making it.

She's no longer the woman he married; her mind is spiraling into a place he cannot follow. But he made her a promise, till death do us part, and he is keeping it.

It makes me wonder, and think, watching them. Fairytale love is what we all wish for, if left to our own devices. It is so lovely, but rather gilded, I think. It is this love, the love that holds the shaking hands and wipes the drippy fingers, that is true, that bolsters those rash starry-eyed vows.

This is the love we're all looking for. And the love we're all seeking to become, too.