My Ellen,

This morning you asked me, very politely, who I was, and I told you I was your husband. You smiled at me the way a person smiles at a pleasant stranger on a bench. I have taught myself not to mind it where you can see. It troubles you when I mind it, so I have learned to save that for later.

I do not weep in front of you anymore. After you were asleep tonight I sat by the bed and held your hand a good while. I want it written down somewhere, though you will not read it and would not remember if I read it aloud, that your hand still knows mine. The fingers settle in just the same as they did forty-one years ago. Whatever is leaving you, that part has not left.

I love you for the both of us now. That is the arrangement, and I find I do not resent it.

A long time ago you wrote me a note that I keep folded in my wallet. It says, "If I ever lose myself, find me." I am doing my best, Ellen. I look for you every day, and now and then, for a moment, there you are.