On a quiet Sunday evening, Bert and Edna sat on their porch swing, tea in hand, watching squirrels battle over a stray Cheeto as the sun dipped behind the trees. Fifty-five years of marriage had taught them patience, laughter, and the art of tiny joys.
Out of nowhere, Edna sighed. “Bert, let’s talk bucket lists.”
Bert snorted. “Buckets? At 87? The last thing on my list is remembering where I put my pants.”
Edna laughed. “No, silly. I mean dreams we’ve never chased — things we want to do before we leave.”
Bert hesitated. “Skydiving,” he admitted.
Edna’s eyes widened. “You? The man who passed out tying his shoe?”
“Just let me land in the neighbor’s garden if I fall,” Bert said with a grin.
And just like that, the two made a pact. Bert would skydive. Edna had her own surprise up her sleeve.
With a mischievous glint reminiscent of her 1965 “accidental” bowling trophy mishap, Edna leaned closer. “Bert… remember how your recliner always leaned left? That was me.”
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