“Only about 2% of older widows remarry,” she read to him from one of the studies she’d found of seniors over the age of 70 who had found a silver-haired soul mate.
‘I am one of them,’ she whispered, and smiled.
He smiled back and showed her the photos he’d gathered for an article he was writing about her, about them, and about all who find love again after great loss.
“So, I am no longer a dandelion? I am a cattail?”
He’d written about her, and them, and the others like them, before, likening lovers late in life to the little yellow flowers “having with age, become round balls of silver tufted hair.”
He laughed.
“You are my feathery and wispy ‘fountain-ous’ plume of silvergrass swaying gracefully in the setting sun.
“You are my cottony fluff of cattail. See there? How pretty is that?
“Beautiful.
“Elegant.
“Like you.”
Praise be to God!