Sexy. Whenever I think of Perry and how we were, I think sexy. The thought makes me smile—a
buoyant inner smile, almost smug. Falling in love at forty-seven and marrying at fifty-two is both
phenomenal and frightening. But then again, falling in love is always phenomenal and
frightening.

    However, in your fifties, the relationship comes with an end date built-in.

    Oh, I know some people claim that fifty is the new thirty and all that. But for me, when Perry
and I married, I was keenly aware that one of us would have to usher the other out. Maybe not
for another thirty years or so, knock on wood, but Perry's parents both died in their early sixties.
I'd buried many loved ones already. I just wanted it to be Perry ushering me out.

     I should have remembered: Be careful what you wish for.