Then, the next time I see you, you must be wearing this white cotton dress. Even if the sun hides in the clouds and cries to itself, I can still see that ray of kindness in your brown eyes, shining brightly.
I want to remember so many things: the salty sea breeze ruffling your hair by the shore; the gentle sunrise that day, warm as a kind old grandfather, making our faces glow. I smiled at you, feeling a faint urge to cry. You rose, stepped into the surf, picked up a shell, and struggled to write crookedly in the sand: “May we find one heart to share, and never part, even when our hair turns white. Joined as husband and wife, may we always trust and cherish each other.”
I also want to remember some other things: the latest hit songs we listened to together, the tenderness of your hand in mine in the darkness of the movie theater, the sound of your snoring, the look on your face when you smiled and when you cried. And the most beautiful fairy tale you ever told me: “When our hair has turned white and we can only live on porridge, when one of us is bedridden and unable to move, the other will pick up this old, yellowed calendar, slowly count through all the romance and happiness of the past, and tell it to them.”
Oh, and one more thing: I still drink tea and water from your cup. I still have the habit of hugging the embroidered pillow you gave me every night as I fall asleep.
