Forty-seven years today, he thinks, as he looks into her face. The same face he's seen almost every day since 1968, and yet, a face so unlike what he's used to. He always thought they'd see 50 years together.
And while he thinks this still may be the case--that he and she both might be alive three years down the road--he realizes that she might never remember the milestone. The day will pass like most others do now, with a simple celebration that lasts for just a moment, and then within an instant, is gone. The information is fleeting, diaphanous, ephemeral, much like the bubbles that she blows with her grandchildren. It never even makes it to the storage tank of her brain, which is overwhelmed and overstimulated, unable to make new memories and sometimes even unable to cull information she's known forever.
Will she even know me, he wonders, when we've made it to 50 years? It's a thought he chooses not to dwell on. Instead, he turns on the CD player, turns up the volume to "When I Fall in Love," and places one hand on his wife's back the other into her waiting hand. If he only has one instant, he plans on gathering up as many of them as he can.