My grandmother drives down the highway.

I lay my head on her shoulder, and she tells me of the earlier times when she was my age, times when her wedding band hadn’t yet left a soft spot on her finger from months of wear.
My grandfather has been gone fourteen years now. There’s been an entire piece of who she is missing for as long as I can remember, and I’ve heard her lonely heart tell stories of him so often that I’ve heard the same stories twice.
It’s like God decided to come along one day and steal one of her ribs away from her, but she’s had to go on living, breathing without it. And it’s been difficult, and the breathing has been wheezy, but she has done it.
This is the sort of love people should wait for.


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