The first night of Arnold’s convalescence I slept on the sofa. Around midnight, I startled myself awake and went to check on him. I had forgotten to shut the bedroom light. Snoring loudly from the anesthesia, his bandaged eyes wrapped in thick gauze, he lay supine, unaware of my presence. I crossed the room and stood over him. He looked helpless and blind and unbearably old, and I feared that the most difficult part of my life was about to begin.

I returned to the sofa, but only slept in fits and starts.

When I checked on him the next morning, I found him sitting up in bed, labeling his invitations by touch alone.

“How are you feeling? Can I get you anything?” I asked.

“I think I’ve got everything I need. Go finish your novel.”

How could I not return to my computer to try to chip away at the frozen improbable love story while my sixty-three-year-old husband was in the next room blindly labeling invitations to an exhibition that would open while he still wore bandages over his eyes?