The first time he held my hand, we were dancing. Bill and Dot had taken to the floor and Arthur had looked at me a little shyly and tilted his head to ask, and I’d nodded, stepped towards him. We were clumsy together, no grace. But I remember the warmth of his hand, and the size of it, how my hand almost got lost in it, how he smelled clean and like comfort, and I remember feeling safe and protected. Now, in this bed we’ve shared for years, he is not himself. He is gone. His body, which carried him for almost nine decades, is useless and empty.
