“C’mon! Get up!” We were going to eat dinner except that you didn’t want to get out of bed.
I alternated between grunts of frustration and my pet name for you. Then I caged you, my hands planted in the pillows at both sides of your cheeks, my hair all over your face. I called you by your pet name again, staring you in the eye with all the love only a wife can give her husband after a long day of chasing around the kids. “Tara na.” (Let’s go.)
“One day, you’ll say this to a future, younger version of me.”
Flabbergasted, I sputtered an airy what.
“Nothing.” Your eyes avoided mine. I pinned you by the shoulders.
“Do you mean to say that I’ll be saying this to our kid because you’d have died then?”
This all happened after you told me how you wished we’d have already married.