There's something about an old couple holding hands that always stops me in my tracks.

I watch them from a distance, and envy tugs.

Theirs is a contentment girded by the familiar, so practiced are they at translating each other's sighs. They have an accumulated history, the kind that will elude someone like me because I got it wrong the first time and then waited a long while before trying again. My happiness is more the knock-on-wood kind, knuckles poised to tap whenever someon ...

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