entered.
Irene believed it was finished.
“I knew what Irene told me.”
Then she met me.
That part I remembered without Irene’s help.
I first saw her in college. She was laughing with a friend three rows ahead of me, and I stared long enough for her to catch me.
Months later, when I finally asked her out, she smiled and said, “Took you long enough.”
“It took me months to work up the nerve.”
Then she met me.
“It took you months to stop staring.”
I laughed when I remembered it.
Not long after that, I joined the Army.
When I learned I’d be leaving for Vietnam, I told Irene I didn’t want to go without marrying her.
She looked at me and said, “Are you asking because you’re scared?”
“I’m asking because I love you.”
“It took you months to stop staring.”
“Good answer.”
***
A week later, she
wore a white summer dress covered in tiny light-blue flowers, and afterward we ate hamburgers at a roadside diner because that was all we could afford.
A few days later, I left.
Her letters followed me overseas.
About a year later, I came home to her for good.
She wore a white summer dress covered in tiny light-blue flowers.
We built everything from there: three children, five grandchildren, a whole life.
On our anniversary, Irene squeezed my hand beneath the table and whispered, “Not bad for a cheap diner wedding.”
***
Two months later, I held that same hand while she died.
I looked back at the letter.
When I married you, I believed with everything in me that I was free to do it.
“Not bad for a cheap diner wedding.”
I could breathe again.
Then I read the next line.
Fourteen years later, I learned I wasn’t.
