Remember kids, the only difference between screwing around and science, is writing it down.

The year was 1962 when I met the man I would later call my husband. The man who sits at my bedside, holding my hand as I weakly gaze into the familiar blue eyes that captivated me many years ago... Far too many years than I would care to mention. "Charles?" My voice escapes my lips in a breathy hum, the downtrodden tones of approaching death threatening to distort his beautiful name. "Yes, my Love?" He replies with an expression of deep melancholy. "Do you remember when we met?" I inquire with a gentle smile painted upon my face, my wrinkled hand cradled gently in his own. "Of course I do, Darling," he soothes me, the cool metal of his wedding band brushing against my skin. "I never stop remembering."