“I remember when we went to Rome”, Eleanor said, her wooden needles clacking quietly as she worked on a series of purl stitches.

Michael chased the memory and found it. The Coliseum, the Spanish Steps, the Trevi Fountain. It had been a wonderful time. He looked at Eleanor, sitting in her favorite armchair, the table lamp beside her glowing softly. She was still quite lovely.

“I wish we could have taken the children,” she continued, “but I’m glad we got to see it while we were young”.

Michael nodded to himself. Their children were now fully grown, with families of their own, and were spread out around the Atlanta beltway. He wished they saw more of them.

Eleanor stopped her handiwork and sighed. She placed her glasses in her lap and rubbed her eyes.

“Time for bed”, she announced. She returned her knitting to the basket at her feet and pushed herself out of the chair with a slight groan.

At the foot of the steps leading up to her second-story bedroom, she paused and sighed again.

“I miss you, dear heart”, she murmured, then started the climb.

Michael floated effortlessly behind her, his hand on her shoulder.

“Sweet dreams, my love”, he whispered.