“How long have you been married?” Armand asked me for the third time that morning.
“26 1/2 years,” I replied, beaming, once again. “It goes by fast.”
After we had gone for our outing to and from the park, where I pushed him in his wheelchair, we sat and watched two back-to-back episodes of “In the Heat of the Night.”
“I think he’s dead,” Armand said, as Carroll O-Connor’s face appeared on the TV as police chief Gillespie.
“Yes, he is,” I replied. “I think he passed away a while back.”
“Do you have any kids?,” Armand asked me for the second time,”
“No, just dogs, ” I smiled.
A gold Tabby cat walked into the room and hopped up in Armand’s lap. He stroked the cat lovingly before nodding off to sleep.
He awoke a few moments later and said to the cat, “Ah, Spunky, such a good cat.”
I smiled, knowing that Spunky was a different cat that had died 10 years ago. The cat in Armand’s lap was Tigger.
But that’s okay.
I enjoy my visits with Armand, and from the way he smiles at me, I know he enjoys it, too.