That was true, at least. When she washed Peter’s back in the bath, she felt sad to see the folds of skin hanging off his limbs where there used to be solid muscle. He had black moles on his torso, varicose veins on his legs, and liver spots on his hands. His silver hair had thinned at the crown, but he still had his cowlick, perched above the weathered skin of his face. So many little imperfections, but she loved the soul of him.

What must he see when he watched her naked at her toilette? She had become the fat little bow-wow her sisters used to tease her for being. Six pregnancies, plus the appetite for sweet foods she developed after the siege, had left her with an apron of flesh hanging from her belly. Her breasts, which Peter used to love, drooped low and flat when not encased in a brassiere, and she chose not to imagine what her bottom looked like. Yet still he felt desire for her and she for him. Their lovemaking was slower and more careful than in their youth. She had a bad back and a weak leg, while Peter did not have the strength to rest his weight on his elbows in the missionary position, but they found ways to keep their passion alive that were both comfortable and intimate.

* * *

During the remainder of that year, Maria felt herself slowing down. She often fell asleep after lunch and dozed for part of the afternoon. Peter sat beside her pretending to read his paper, but when she opened her eyes she usually found he was snoring gently, mouth open and spectacles slipped down his nose. She felt the cold more than ever, and her fingers stiffened so that sewing became difficult. Sometimes she forgot the names of her grandchildren, confusing one with the other, or accidentally calling them “Katya” or “Pavel.” “Silly me.” She frowned, recognizing her mistakes.

No matter. They were lucky, she and Peter. They were survivors. Their neighbor Viktor had died in his fifties from a heart attack, and his wife blamed the gulag. Peter was made of stronger stuff and his overall health seemed good as he entered his eightieth year. They had met sixty-one years ago, spent nineteen years together, sixteen years apart, and now it was twenty-six years since the day he came back to her in the Peterhof palace garden. Still she smiled when she remembered that moment: the shock, the incredulity, and the dawning realization that God had wrought a miracle for her.

In their last twenty-six years Peter had become close to his eight grandchildren and passed on his natural wisdom and equanimity, lessons no school could ever teach. They worshipped him, visiting often and bringing fish they had caught or rabbits they had trapped using his methods.