A peaceful Sunday evening settled over the neighborhood as Bert and Edna, married for fifty-five years, rocked gently on their porch swing. The air was warm, the tea was lukewarm, and the squirrels in the yard were putting on quite the show—fighting over a single, forgotten Cheeto. As the sun dipped below the trees, Edna turned to Bert with a thoughtful sigh.
“Bert,” she said, “let’s talk about our bucket lists.”
Bert frowned. “Bucket lists? Edna, I’m eighty-seven. At this point, my bucket list is just hoping I remember where I left my pants in the morning.”
Edna chuckled but pressed on. “No, seriously. Before we go, we should do something we’ve always wanted to do.”
Bert scratched his head, then grinned. “Alright. I’ve always wanted to go skydiving.”
Edna’s eyebrows shot up. “Skydiving? Bert, you passed out for three minutes last week just tying your shoes!”
Bert shrugged. “Exactly. If I die midair, I’ll just land in Old Man Jenkins’ garden. I’ve been wanting to haunt that grump for years.”
They both laughed, and then Edna’s eyes sparkled—the same way they had in 1965 when she’d “accidentally” thrown Bert’s bowling trophy out the car window.
“Fine, you go skydiving,” she said. “But I’ve got something to confess.”
Bert swallowed hard. “Confess what?”
Edna leaned in. “Remember how your favorite recliner always leaned to the left for twenty years?”
