The wooden box rested beside us.
After a while, Russell opened it.
“I never actually asked you,” he said.
I looked over.
He took out the ring.
“Sylvia Carter, would 19-year-old you have said yes?”
My eyes filled.
“Yes.”
Russell looked down for a moment.
Perhaps part of him had waited 41 years to hear that answer.
Then he looked at me again.
“And what about 60-year-old you?”
I thought about the girl I had been.
I thought about the woman I had become.
There were whole lives between those two people, and I couldn’t erase any of them.
Nor did I want to.
But I also knew I didn’t want to spend whatever time remained wishing we had been braver again.
So I held out my hand.
“Sixty-year-old Sylvia knows better than to waste another day.”
Russell smiled through his tears.
Then he slipped the ring onto my finger.
It fit.
He stared at it and laughed softly.
“Only 41 years late.”
I rested my head against his.
“We’ve both been late before.”
Now Russell calls me every morning.
Sometimes Colin has to help him with the phone, but Russell insists on making the call himself.
I’ve met his children and grandchildren. We look through old photographs together, and he keeps asking about all the years he missed.
We don’t know how many mornings like this we have left.
Maybe not many.
But I’ve stopped counting what we lost.
This morning, Russell called just after eight.
“What are you doing today, Sylvie?”
I looked down at the ring that had waited more than four decades to reach my hand.
“Nothing yet.”
“Good,” he said. “I was hoping you’d spend it with me.”
Forty-one years ago, I stayed quiet when I should have spoken.
This time, I smiled, picked up my coat, and went to him.
