It’s pitch black. His hands are shaking. He points. They’re right behind you.

There’s an obituary about a guy who died right after his wife. They’d been married for something like 63 years. So you think, here’s a case where they spent their entire lives together. They didn’t wanna live apart. So I drive out there. See if I can write about it. I’m walking from the street to the house – it’s one of those old Florida ranch styles, a one-story brick place that sits about 50 yards off a small lake. The next door neighbor comes out, introduces himself.

We begin to talk. He loved these guys, best friends, knew em for decades. He’s filling my notebook with stories about how they met, how they courted, their lives. They used to sit on a bench in the afternoons and look at the water.

Asks me if I’d like to look around inside. We go in the back door. He’s grieving and it helps to talk about it. So he does. For hours.

I’m grateful. They sound like wonderful people. But it’s time to go. It’s getting dark. We’re sitting there in the den of this empty old house and he’s just getting warmed up. Emotional. Remembering the time. Now the sun’s gone. It’s pitch black in this house and he’s whispering now, tears streaming and there’s not a light on in the place.

He can’t believe they’re gone. He thinks mebbe they haven’t gone, not completely. He talks about their plans. How they wanted to be together, not just in life, but after.

Barely audible now. And then he looks up, lifts a shaky hand, points just over my shoulder. A catch in his voice.

“They’re right behind you….”

I stand, naturally. Move a little bit – away. It’s the fireplace. There’s an urn over the mantle.

Time to go.