On a quiet Sunday evening, the sun melted into gold behind the trees, and Bert and Edna settled onto their old porch swing, teacups in hand. Fifty-five years of marriage had softened their words and sharpened their humor. The lukewarm tea didn’t matter — what mattered was the rhythm of their togetherness, the gentle creak of the swing, and the comfort of a life shared.

Out of nowhere, Edna turned to Bert and said, “You know what we should talk about? Our bucket lists.”
Bert blinked, taken aback. “At eighty-seven,” he said, “my only bucket list is remembering where I left my pants.”
Edna chuckled, expecting nothing serious, until Bert leaned back and added, “But I’ve always wanted to go skydiving.”

She nearly spilled her tea. “Skydiving? Bert, you fainted last week just bending down to tie your shoes!”
“Exactly,” Bert said with a grin. “If I fall from a plane, at least it’ll be with style. And if it doesn’t work out, I’ll come back to haunt the neighbor with the loud leaf blower.”

Edna shook her head but smiled — she’d seen that spark in his eye before. After a moment, she sighed. “Well, if you’re going to chase your dreams, maybe I should, too. But first… I have to tell you something.”

Bert raised a brow. “Oh boy. Should I be sitting for this?”
“You already are,” she said, then took a long sip of tea. “Remember back in 1989, when you shrunk my favorite curtains doing laundry?”
“How could I forget? You didn’t speak to me for a week.”
“Well,” Edna continued, “I may have… sabotaged your recliner. I shoved a spatula under the cushion so it squeaked every time you sat down. And for years, I rigged the TV remote so it always switched to Hallmark movies. Revenge is a dish best served sentimental.”

For a moment, Bert just stared — then erupted in laughter so loud it startled the porch cat. “Edna, you’re a menace! I thought that recliner was haunted!”

When he finally caught his breath, he grinned and said, “Well, I suppose it’s time for me to confess, too. Those ‘fishing trips’ I used to take? They weren’t exactly about catching trout.”
“Oh no,” Edna said, eyes narrowing. “Don’t tell me—”
“I was bowling. Secretly. I won four trophies.” He pointed toward the house. “They’re behind the water heater.”

Edna gasped, then burst into laughter so fierce she cried. They sat there, giggling like teenagers, trading secrets and forgiveness in the fading light. That night, they decided that life — however much was left — deserved more adventures and fewer secrets.

A week later, Edna bought Bert a brand-new recliner, no spatulas involved. He booked a skydiving lesson, and though he screamed the whole way down, he landed with a triumphant grin. On Saturdays, they began bowling together, laughing at every gutter ball. The confessions that once hid between them now became the glue that held their hearts tighter than ever.

Years passed. Their hair silvered, their hands trembled, but their laughter never dimmed. Then, one winter morning, their journey ended together in a quiet car crash — sudden, gentle, merciful.

When they opened their eyes, they stood hand in hand before the Pearly Gates. St. Peter smiled and welcomed them into a paradise of endless feasts, sunshine, and joy. “You can eat whatever you want,” he said, “and never gain a pound.”

Bert turned to Edna, wide-eyed. “You mean I could’ve had bacon every day?”
Edna folded her arms. “Don’t you start.”
But Bert just grinned and muttered, “We could’ve been here years ago if not for your bran muffins.”

And with that, the gates swung open — and their laughter carried straight into eternity.