I am 62. My husband, the center of my universe, is soon to be 73. Statistically, I will have to spend some part of the end of my life without him. I would prefer to go out with him, but if that doesn’t work out for us, I will have a large collection of poems–some good, some mediocre, a few outright bad–to read and remember the incredible good fortune I have now to live with the person I love and respect most in the world.
My poems are my personal history of a long third marriage that has made all the bad years of the first two worthwhile. That is why I write.
What about you?