Romance, Yes.

I am spending the weekend with the most romantic man alive. He's an older man, yes. Quite a bit older than me. And pretty much anyone else I know, actually.

I am in an old two-story house with a wrap-around porch and drafty, single-pane windows and one electrical outlet per room, if you're lucky. I am in my old bedroom. It has been washed in a pale shade of blue, erasing the bright orange and yellow flowers from the walls, but not my memory. If I close my eyes, I can still see the wallpaper. And the patchwork carpet, made from scraps. And my tall white cabinet, with horse statues posed in every nook and cranny.

The house sits quite grandly, back from the street. Dad has lived there for 45 years. For the last seven years, he has been alone.

Together we go to the cemetery to visit my mother's grave. Today is their 63rd wedding anniversary, if you're counting. And we are. He helps me tear the price tags off the artificial flower bunches we purchased in bright, spring colors. Why didn't I bring my knife? he laments and I arrange the sunflowers in the vase below her name.

Millie.

Well, girl, he says. He always calls her that now. It's been a long time. I know he is referring to the length of her absence, not the length of his marriage. And then he starts to sing. Romantic, old songs about lovin' you always. He reaches his hand out to me. He wants to dance. A little.

We do. And I notice the ring on his left hand. He lost his wedding ring a few years ago while pruning his orchard. But he has a new one. On his ring finger.

I can see that it is hers. Resized to fit him.

Yes. I am spending the weekend with the romantic man alive.