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Though it gets mighty lonesome having survived the death of one’s spouse, I had my reasons for not wanting to marry again. But how I crave companionship! A companion to coffee with, to discuss things of heart and mind with! To laugh with. So, when my 82 year old neighbor, a Holocaust survivor, and I met up on the bus and had a joyous trip together, I was happy when he suggested we see each other again.

      He arrived at my door at the appointed time, hunched over even more than last week, his head severely inclined towards the ground with osteoporosis. But he had brought over a play list and said he wanted to dance.  I could see the muscles had disappeared from his legs altogether and wondered how in the world could he move his body in dance?

       When he turned on “Wild Thing” and his eyes fired up behind his glasses, his hands began to to sway, to shake, to express all the life he had caged up inside his frail being. And me, not wanting to get too romantically close to a man 10 years my senior who was feeble, danced a few feet away from him.           

       The next week, it was my turn to provide a song from my play list. We danced to Led Zeppelin’s "Stairway to Heaven," and when he got tired, we sat down over tea to study the strange and mysterious lyrics.

       Then he hinted that it might be a nice if we were to marry. Not after this play list, but perhaps after the next one? How much time do we have left on earth? After all, he was growing towards the grave.  And I said, Oh no, I do not want to marry again.

      I did not confess that I had taken care of my husband, also 10 years my senior, when he became ill with cancer and dementia. I would never do that again. And no way would I join my merge my meager bank account with a new man however old.  Whatever little I have, was going to my 5 kids. So no thank you to marriage.

       When he left my house, his steps were slower, his head more downtrodden than ever.  We had found real love at an older age. Now it was going. Then he seemed to be gone.