
Photo courtesy of Tyler and Amy Jones
Two months ago, my grandfather turned 90. A day later, his health began to decline. Since that time, my family has been preparing to say goodbye. Although my grandfather is still alive and doing fairly well, the reality of the shortness of life and the significance of living that life well has sprung into focus for all of us. In an unsuspecting moment between my grandfather and grandmother, one of my cousins snapped this photo. This is a tribute to what it represents.
Two hands, wrinkled by time and love. Interwoven trust. Aged tenderness. White hair brushes against a weathered gold band.
Sixty-three years.
Knots and callouses of a romance built by faithfulness, little touches of twenty thousand days. An extra cup of coffee. A touch of the hand. A look of admiration.
Sixty-three years.
They traveled the world, one inch at a time. Hot air balloons over the Sahara. Cups of tea in China. Children and grandchildren in Australia.
Sixty-three years.
The moments they made by simply showing up. Piano recitals. Graduations. Weddings.
Sixty-three years.
The places they seemed to make the center of the world. The Root Beer Stand. Skyline Chili. The swimming pool.
Sixty-three years.
And in no small way, everyone leaves feeling like a best friend. A farmer boy who got to sit on Mr. Jones’ tractor. A drop-out who was reminded that he was a person. A waitress who dug into her own pocket to bring chili every week, all because she couldn’t imagine a Tuesday without them.
Unnumbered people who have witnessed a marriage that has lasted.
Sixty-three years . . . at least.