Chapter 85 - Julian Asked Me to Marry Him Again
Dementia moved slowly.
Then quickly.
Julian began needing help dressing.
Then bathing.
Then walking.
He hated dependence.
But he remained Julian in flashes.
One morning, he looked at his caregiver and said:
“I used to own aircraft.”
The caregiver smiled.
“I know.”
“Several.”
“I know.”
“Important ones.”
“Very.”
Julian looked satisfied.
Another day he asked me:
“Are you married?”
“Yes.”
“To whom?”
“You.”
He stared.
Then smiled like a younger man.
“Excellent.”
Later that week, he proposed.
Again.
We were sitting near the window.
He held my hand.
“You should marry me.”
“I already did.”
“Oh.”
Pause.
“Good decision?”
“Mostly.”
He smiled.
Then five minutes later:
“Will you marry me?”
This time I said yes.
Meredith Grace overheard.
Within hours, she had flowers.
Apparently our family had no respect for rhetorical proposals.
The next afternoon, we held a ceremony in the living room.
Six people.
No legal meaning.
No fountain.
Julian wore a jacket.
I wore Allison’s green suit.
Meredith Grace officiated again.
“Grandpa, do you take Meredith—”
“Yes.”
“You didn't let me finish.”
“I’m old.”
Fair.
My turn.
“Yes.”
Julian kissed my hand.
Then whispered:
“What's your name?”
Everyone froze.
I smiled.
“Meredith.”
“Beautiful.”
He meant the name.
Maybe me.
Both.
We ate cake.
He forgot the ceremony before dinner.
I did not.
That was enough.
A week later, we visited the courtyard one final time.
Doctors advised against long outings.
But the weather was warm.
Meredith Grace arranged everything.
Wheelchairs side by side.
Children playing.
Fountain running.
Julian stared at water for a long time.
Then he said:
“Cold.”
I turned.
“What?”
“You were cold.”
My heart stopped.
He looked at me.
Fully.
I knew immediately.
One of those rare windows.
“Julian?”
“Your hair was wet.”
Tears blurred my vision.
“Yes.”
“Your father.”
“Yes.”
His jaw tightened.
Old anger.
“You were wearing black.”
“Yes.”
“Table nineteen.”
I laughed through tears.
“Yes.”
He remembered.
Not fragments.
That night.
He reached for my face the same way he had in the ballroom.
“You’re cold.”
Fifty-seven years collapsed.
I pressed my cheek into his palm.
“Not anymore.”
He smiled.
Then asked:
“Did we go home?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
“We built one.”
His eyes filled.
“Good.”
The window closed minutes later.
He asked where we were.
I told him.
He accepted.
But I had been given the memory once more.
May you like
Not because pain deserved remembrance.
Because love had returned to stand beside it.
