“She’s lost a lot of weight,” I heard someone say at a lunch table near ours. “Like so much she could die.”
Recently, my wife and I began a couple’s love journal titled Why I Love You—a love story, in our own words.
Seven years had passed since we had last seen one another, and then, there she was again. A garland of plastic Hawaiian flowers adorned her neck as she sat on the back steps at Mary’s parents’ home in Keysville, Virginia. The occasion which brought us together again was a mutual friend’s engagement party: Becky Follin, soon to be Becky Liddell. Butterflies fluttered in my future wife’s stomach, according to her journal response, upon seeing me. I never knew this detail, until now.
The portly woman had her own path to be exact, worn white into the grass that led to her car. After this curiosity, I reached into my coat pocket and retrieved a folded copy of “The Last Leaf,” by O. Henry that I had printed prior to my departure from Charlottesville earlier in the day. “Don’t laugh at me,” I said to my then-girlfriend. “I’m going to read you a short story.”