I took a friend's advice. John and I went to see A Man Called Otto. The theater was populated with similarly gray haired couples, spread out enough that we could react in private. It was handy to have tissues in my pocket, and handy to have a hand to hold in the dark. 

The story circles around a grouchy widower, who is bent on alienating his annoying neighbors. While I hope that neither John nor I go the crotchety route, the prospects of one of us being left behind seems likely. Having spent so many years ramping up to planning our life together, it seems prudent to give a nod to what it will be like to be apart. 

I have a soft spot for story lines in which cantankerous grumps are softened by children. Mary of the Secret Garden, Heidi, Anne of Green Gables, and Shirley Temple all touch the crusty hearts of elders who have forgotten how to smile. Two bilingual girls achieve it as well with Otto. As did an effervescent woman from South America who was not put off by his scowls. 

Otto takes flowers to the grave of his beloved wife, and talks with her about his struggles. It seems to help. 

Perhaps I will go to the graveyard this week. Reading the epitaphs of my parents and relatives could help me find my way around the troubles they have graduated from. It might help me stay soft.