The more she spoke, the quieter Dovid got, until she could hear the clink of his mug on the table between sentences

It’s a nice thing, Golda thought, stroking the oak table, to know your purchase paid off, thirty years after the fact.

Josh Barber had told them they wouldn’t regret buying the table; that it would last them for decades. Decades had seemed deliciously laughable at the time, surrounded by the invincible glow of youth. Golda closed her eyes; she could see the ghosts of thousands of Shabbos seudos, Pesach Sedorim, birthday dinners, floating around the room.

“Exhausted, huh?” Dovid said.

She opened her eyes, smiled sheepishly. “Just thinking about this table, actually.”

Dovid flashed a grin. “Was a solid buy. Wish we could tell good ol’ Josh how much we enjoy it.”

“His neshamah should have an aliyah,” Golda murmured.

“We’ll take it with us,” Dovid said.

“Take it where?”

Dovid spread his hands. “Wherever it is you want us to go. I’m ready, Golda. You know me, I love our home and I love the life we’ve created here, but it’s all because of you.

“|You’ve been behind me every step of the way; you followed me to Boston when your heart was in Chicago with your family. If your heart is taking you somewhere else now, I’m on board. I’m not promising I won’t kvetch”—he flashed his grin again—“but I’ll do my best to behave.”

“The table is too big,” she said softly. “It can’t come with us.”

He shrugged. “It’s just a table. Someone else will enjoy it.”

And even when his voice cracked, he didn’t break eye contact with his wife of 42 years.