In 1963, little James and Clara were inseparable — best friends since they could walk, neighbors who built castles in sandboxes and shared peanut butter sandwiches under the old oak tree. Everyone in their small town said they were “born side by side, and would never drift apart.”
Through the years, they proved it true. In 1992, they stood hand in hand at the altar, both beaming in love. They’d been through it all — the draft, lost parents, lost jobs — but their love never wavered. When life was cruel, they held each other tighter. When life was kind, they held each other longer.
By 2025, they were still on that same front porch, still laughing together on the swing James built when their first daughter was born. But something was different now. Clara’s laugh was just a little softer. Her hands trembled when she held her tea. She often forgot names… even James’.
The doctors called it early-onset Alzheimer’s.
Some days she was herself — bright, talkative, and teasing James just like old times. But most days, she stared at the man beside her with confusion, asking, “Do I know you?”
Still, James never left her side. Every morning, he would take her outside to that same swing, wrap the thick blanket around her shoulders, and whisper, “I’m your husband, Clara. And I’ve loved you since we were kids.”
One winter evening, as the sky turned golden, Clara reached for his hand and smiled, her eyes suddenly clear. “I remember,” she said softly, tears in her eyes. “You’re my James. My James.”
It was the last thing she ever said.
She passed away that night, peacefully in her sleep, with James holding her hand — just like he always had.
And now, every sunset, James still sits alone on that porch swing, holding her favorite blanket, whispering, “Swing with me, Clara… just one more time.”