I heard my name right before his knobby elbow poked me. “What is it?” I asked, rubbing my upper arm.
“Look,” Horace pointed, “over there.”
I grunted to communicate my irritation and adjusted my glasses, which had fallen down my nose just enough while I’d dozed to make it impossible to see anything beyond the weeping willow’s feathery branches. “What am I looking for?”
“Don’t you see?” My husband’s voice was hushed and shaking in a way I’d only heard a hand full of times in the fifty-five years I’d known him. The first time was at the birth of our oldest daughter, and the last time had been at the deathbed of his father. On each occasion, I had been brought to my metaphorical knees by what I saw in Horace’s broad-planed face—a look of such wonder I barely recognized him.