There’s
a certain kind of magic in seeing an elderly couple walking hand in hand, their
fingers entwined like they have been for decades. Their steps are slower,
perhaps a little unsteady, but they move together, effortlessly in sync. When
you pass them, you find yourself smiling and whispering the same thing you
always do: Look at them. That’s love. You wonder about their story. Were
they high school sweethearts who grew up together, or did they meet later in
life, finding love after heartbreak? Did they dance in the kitchen on rainy
afternoons, share whispered secrets under the stars or leave love notes tucked
between the pages of well-worn books? Whatever the details, it’s clear they’ve
chosen each other, after and again, through the seasons of life.
And
then a thought drifts into your mind like a feather on the wind, Will I
look that happy in 50 years? I hope so. I hope I have a hand that still
fits perfectly in mine, a presence beside me that feels like home. I hope for
laughter that deepens with time, for quiet moments that hold just as much love
as grand gestures. Maybe love isn’t always the firework-filled, earth-shaking
force we imagine in our youth. Maybe it’s in the soft love before sleep, the
way they still put you closer after all these years. Maybe it’s in the way they
know exactly how you take your morning beverage or the comfort of a familiar
touch after a long day.
So,
as you watch that elderly couple fade into the distance, you make a wish, not
just for love, but for love that goes on till the end of time. The kind
that weathers storms and blooms through time. The kind that feels just as
strong, just as pure, fifty years down the road. I close my eyes and whisper to
the future, trust the timing of the universe.