The Stroke of Winter

by Wendy Webb

Only Joe remembered asking his wife to marry him—the only other person there had gone long ago. Only Joe remembered their honeymoon. Or buying their first house. Or the happy news of a baby on the way. Joe alone was the keeper of those memories, and so many more like them, Tess thought. It was a great responsibility, holding all that history inside one’s head. An important vigil. Maybe that was why newer experiences faded as one neared the end of a long life. The brain simply couldn’t hold the lifetime of memories it had stored, and the most precious took precedence over those that came after.

It was almost as if, the nearer people are to the other side, whether they’ve just come into the world or are close to leaving it, the more sleep they need. And she wondered, too, if it was really sleep at all. If it wasn’t simply their way of touching what was behind the veil. Infants reaching back to where they had been. Seniors reaching forward to where they were soon going.

he is the very definition of living in the moment,” Wyatt continued. “Every dinner is the best he’s ever had. Every beer or glass of wine is more delicious than the last. Every day is a cause for celebration, whether it’s a holiday or any random Tuesday. I don’t know anyone who enjoys life more than he does.” “It sort of makes you realize that the little things—a glass of wine, a great meal, the company of friends—are actually the big things,”

“I should go and start dinner for your father. And by start dinner, of course I mean make reservations.”

“You deserve someone who loves you as much as you love everyone else.”

“You are a very kind, loving person. That’ll come back to you. It always does.”