Mervin Stilts was ninety-three years old when he died. His second wife, Melinda brought him a cup of tea as he sat at their small, round kitchen table, just the right size for two old people who did the crossword together each Sunday morning as the rising sun warmed and brightened the room.
As Mervin sat there, cradling the cup between his hands and feeling the heat from it seep into his arthritic knuckles and blue green veins, he looked across the table at his wife. His eyes traced every line and wrinkle in her face, and counted every joy or sorrow that was the cause. When he was done, satisfied that the lines caused by heartache were far outnumbered by their counterparts, he smiled, and placing trembling hands on her cheeks, Mervin planted whispery soft kisses on her forehead and lips. Patting her hand gently, looking into eyes as clear and blue as they day he first saw them and with a whispered "I love you" Mervin drank his tea down to the dregs, lay his head down on the table pillowed by his arms and died.
Mervin Stilts was ninety-three when he died, and twenty-seven when he next opened his eyes.
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