I opened the journal.

The first pages were ordinary: weather, the new furnace, the price of tomatoes, reminders to call the pharmacy.

Then a date from twelve years earlier appeared, underlined twice.

It was the Sunday we’d shared coffee for the first time.

A young neighbor carried my groceries today.

We talked about Evelyn and the yellow roses.

He did not hurry when I forgot the end of a story.

I thought the world had stopped making room for old men.