An elderly couple, Bert and Edna, are sitting on the porch swing
On a slow Sunday evening, Bert and Edna sat side by side on their old porch swing. After fifty-five years of marriage, the two had grown used to the quiet rhythm of evenings like this — lukewarm tea in hand, the sunset spilling over the yard, and a pair of squirrels waging war over a single Cheeto near the birdbath.
They didn’t need to fill the silence. After so many years, comfort didn’t need words. But that night, Edna broke it anyway.
“Bert,” she said with a long sigh, “let’s talk about our bucket lists.”
Bert squinted. “Lists of buckets? Edna, I’m eighty-seven years old. The only thing on my list is ‘wake up tomorrow and remember where I left my pants.’”
Edna chuckled, the same soft laugh that had carried them through decades of small frustrations and big love. “I mean it. We should each do one thing we’ve always wanted to do before we… well, before we can’t.”
Bert took a slow sip of tea, thinking it over. “All right,” he said finally. “I’ve always wanted to go skydiving.”
Edna’s eyebrows shot up. “Skydiving? Bert, the last time you knelt down to tie your shoe, you passed out for three minutes!”
He shrugged. “If I fall midair, just make sure I land in the neighbor’s garden. I’ve always wanted to haunt that man.”
Edna laughed so hard she nearly spilled her tea. “Fine,” she said, wiping her eyes. “You go skydiving. I’ll cross something off my list too.”
Bert eyed her suspiciously. “And what’s yours?”
That familiar spark flashed in Edna’s eyes — the same mischievous glint she’d had since 1965, the year she “accidentally” tossed his bowling trophy out the car window after an argument.
“Bert,” she said sweetly, “I’ve always wanted to tell you something.”
He froze. “Tell me what?”
“You remember how your favorite recliner always leaned to the left for twenty years?”
“Of course,” Bert said. “I blamed the dog. Poor thing limped for a week after that.”
Edna leaned in and whispered, “It wasn’t the dog. It was me. After you spilled grape soda on my new curtains back in 1989, I jammed a spatula into the bottom of the chair.”
Bert’s mouth dropped open. “You monster!”
Edna grinned, sipping her tea like nothing happened. “And remember how, no matter which button you pressed, the TV remote always switched to the Hallmark Channel?”
Bert blinked. “You told me it was haunted!”
“Nope,” she said proudly. “I taped a penny inside the battery compartment to short-circuit it. You watched Christmas romance movies for five straight years, my love.”
Bert stared at her, speechless. “Why would you do that?”
“Because slow-motion snowball fights and people kissing under mistletoe are the best revenge, sweetheart.”
For a long moment, Bert just sat there, dumbfounded. Then he leaned back in the swing, eyes narrowed. “You know what, Edna? I’ve got a confession too.”
“Oh?” she said, her curiosity piqued.
“Do you remember those ‘fishing trips’ I went on every Saturday for ten years?”
She frowned. “You don’t even own a fishing pole.”
“I know,” he said, smirking. “I was at the bowling alley. Won four trophies. They’re hidden in the basement behind the water heater.”
Edna’s jaw dropped. “You mean I threw your fake trophy out the window by mistake?”
They both stared at each other for half a beat — and then burst into laughter.
That night, they made a pact: Bert would go skydiving, and Edna would buy a new recliner. And every Saturday, they’d go bowling together — not because they trusted each other, but because they didn’t.
A year later, they’d been married nearly sixty years when tragedy struck. Driving home from one of their bowling nights, their car was hit on the highway. The couple passed together — the same way they’d lived: side by side, hand in hand.
When they opened their eyes again, they were standing at the Pearly Gates. St. Peter smiled warmly as he greeted them.
“Welcome,” he said. “Follow me — your new home awaits.”
The house he led them to was more beautiful than anything they’d ever seen. It had a sunlit porch, a gourmet kitchen, a Jacuzzi big enough for both, and a bedroom with soft white sheets that glowed in the light.
“Whoa,” Bert whispered. “How much is this going to cost?”
“Nothing,” St. Peter said, chuckling. “This is heaven. Everything’s free.”
He showed them around the neighborhood — a rolling green golf course with angelic caddies, endless fairways, and no waiting times. Every morning, the course changed to resemble a different one from Earth — Pebble Beach one day, St. Andrews the next.
Edna clapped her hands together. “How wonderful! What are the green fees?”
“Free,” said St. Peter again, smiling. “Heaven, remember?”
Then he took them to a sprawling restaurant filled with the smell of roasted meat and baked bread. Tables overflowed with prime rib, lobster, wagyu steak, and desserts so perfect they looked painted.
Bert’s eyes widened. “All right, what’s the catch? What’s this going to set me back?”
“For the last time,” St. Peter laughed, “it’s free. Everything here is free.”
Edna couldn’t stop smiling. “This is amazing. But… what about the calories? Are there low-fat, low-cholesterol options?”
St. Peter grinned. “In heaven, you don’t get sick. You don’t gain weight. Eat whatever you like.”
Bert froze mid-bite. His face turned red. He put down his fork and glared at the sky.
“What’s wrong, dear?” Edna asked.
He jabbed a finger at her. “This is all your fault!”
“My fault?”
“Yes! If it weren’t for your kale salads and bran muffins, we could’ve been here ten years ago!”
Edna burst out laughing so hard she nearly fell off her chair. St. Peter shook his head, hiding a smile.
And just like that, the two of them — the bickering, tea-sipping, prank-pulling couple who’d survived decades together — picked up right where they’d left off.
Now, every evening in heaven, they sit on another porch swing. The sunsets never fade, the tea stays warm, and somewhere nearby, two squirrels still fight over a single, perfect Cheeto.
They argue, they tease, and they laugh — the way they always have. Because even eternity, it seems, is better when you have someone to share it with.