“What?”
“Going to marry her?”
I looked toward the distant parking lot.
The woman leaned against the old pickup.
Sunlight caught her hair.
She was reading something while waiting.
Probably a property report.
Or a repair estimate she planned to argue about.
“I don't know.”
My daughter nodded.
“Ask.”
“Marriage requires slightly more planning.”
“She already likes you.”
“That is encouraging.”
My daughter touched the grass beside her mother's headstone.
“Mom would like her.”
My throat tightened.
“You think?”
“She laughs loud.”
My wife had too.
“You remember Mom's laugh?”
“A little.”
That hurt.
I put my arm around her.
“She'd want you happy.”
My daughter looked up.
“She'd want you happy too.”
We sat quietly.
I had spent years interpreting loyalty to my wife as preservation.
Same house.
Same routines.
Same loneliness.
As if changing anything would rewrite her.
But memories are not paint.
New layers do not erase what is underneath.
We walked back to the truck.
The woman looked up.
“You okay?”
I nodded.
My daughter climbed inside.
Then immediately rolled down the window.
“Dad has a question!”
I stared.
The woman smiled.
“What question?”
“Nothing.”
My daughter shouted:
“MARRIAGE!”
I closed my eyes.
The woman burst out laughing.
My wife would absolutely have enjoyed this.
I opened the passenger door.
“She's grounded.”
“You cannot ground truth.”
“Watch me.”
The woman touched my arm.
“Are you asking?”
“Not beside a cemetery with an eight-year-old heckler.”
My daughter shouted:
“I CAN HEAR YOU!”
The woman laughed harder.
I did not propose that day.
But I started planning.
I proposed where we met.
Same gravel shoulder.
Same mountain lake.
Same ranch fence.
Different season.
I told her we were going to inspect a customer’s tractor.
She believed me because apparently she still had too much faith in my professionalism.
I parked.
She looked around.
Then recognized the place.
“Oh.”
The old truck was behind us.
Fully restored mechanically.
Not cosmetically.
She refused new paint.
“Those scratches belong there.”
I agreed.
I opened the hood.
She frowned.
“What is wrong?”
“Nothing.”
“You opened it.”
“I know.”
“That gives me anxiety now.”
“Come here.”
She approached.
On top of the engine sat a small metal box.
Not jewelry-store velvet.
A cleaned bearing case.
She stared.
“You put an engagement ring in a parts box?”
“It was available.”
She laughed.
Then cried before opening it.
I took the ring.