I am at the grocery store. This is one of the places I find inspiration for writing the next best story of my life.

As a struggling, non-employed writer, I am always in search of subject matter that matters. I have written about cows, and tractors, and fireworks, and guitars, and hardware stores. I have told you stories about toilet paper and make-believe interviews with my dog. I have taken you down a few slippery literary trails about nothing in particular. None of which really makes a whole hill of beans worth of difference in your life.

But this story is going to be different. Every now and then something comes along that gets you in the gut. On occasion you get a glimpse of something beautiful, maybe even sacred.

I tugged a buggy out of the holding pen by the door and headed for the fruit counter. Being this close to Thanksgiving, I’m here to pick up a few specific items that I don’t usually keep on hand. My house will be full in a couple of days, and I’ve been, get this, going through a few recipes. I need whole fresh cranberries.

I am also here with the intention of people watching. This is premeditated because, as I said before, I’m looking for inspiration.

I saw them when I rounded the corner onto the bread and chips aisle. He’s wearing jeans and worn-out work boots, a long sleeve plaid shirt with a Redman pouch in the front pocket. A John Deere cap sits on his head, cocked slightly to one side. He is a little round in the middle, and he is the one driving the buggy.

She is walking ahead of him scanning the goods on each shelf. Jeans, white tennis shoes, a white blouse and a festive holiday red sweater. Her hair is salt and pepper. Her glasses are down on the end of her nose. She does not have the shape of a 25-year-old, but she has kept herself well.

What can I say? I am observant for the sake of a good story.

To be honest, I have forgotten about shopping, and I am engaged in snooping on this couple. It’s a little embarrassing, but I do what has to be done. These stories don’t write themselves.

There is no conversation between them. All of their communication seems to be non-verbal. He nods at something on the shelf. She squints her eyes at him and shakes her head “no”. He grows impatient and passes her with the buggy, moving on down the aisle. She clears her throat, and he stops and waits until she puts a jar of peanut butter in the cart. They move on.

Most people are used to the way things work in a grocery store. You push your buggy and after several round trips up and down the aisles you bump into the same one or two people the whole time you’re shopping. You say things like, “Excuse me.” Or “You mind if I squeeze through?” After 30 minutes you feel like you should introduce yourself and ask to see pictures of their kids.

What you don’t do is follow on someone’s heels the whole time. Which is how I almost got caught on aisle five. He was oblivious. She had her antenna up. I had been right behind them for a several aisles by now. I don’t have a clue as to how women know what they know, but when she looked straight at me, I frantically loaded 8 boxes of Hamburger Helper into my buggy as a cover.

After that I changed my tactic and my direction of buggy travel. We crossed paths a few more times but I kept to a more appropriate grocery store etiquette.

Here’s what I got to thinking about. As far as I could tell, they never spoke one word to each other the whole time they were shopping. They didn’t seem to be sour on life, but they just were not engaged with one another. He spent most of his time looking at his phone. She was in charge of filling the buggy. That was it.

Is this what marriage is like more than a few decades down the road? Do they know how lucky they are still to have each other?

You’ve seen these two before. I know you have. You’ve seen them at the mall, around town, maybe at the restaurant. They almost look like two strangers at the same table. They don’t make much eye contact. He talks to the waiter more than he talks to his wife.

It looks like love has grown cold.

But looks are deceiving. Who am I to say that love is dead? I don’t know these two folks at all.

I say this because I got a text this morning that tells me something different. I can’t reveal the details because love is a private matter. I can tell you that I have met the husband whom the text was about. I’m guessing that he and his wife have been married for more than 40 years. They raised a son. They worked regular jobs. They cleaned dishes and paid bills. They spent evenings in front of the TV. They love going to the beach.

They are your normal married old couple. He’s probably pushed a buggy or two down a grocery aisle in his time.

It’s her birthday and he gave her a wooden box made from a piece of wood from her grandpa’s barn. It’s a custom box which he had made for her weeks ago. He’s been planning ahead, which by itself is extraordinary. But what impresses me most is the note he gave her to go with the box.

Quiet and sturdy men don’t often write about things of the heart. So, he practiced the note first. His note pad was filled with scratches and crossed out words. He worked at the words like an artist works on a canvas, painfully trying to get the phrasing just right.

Like I said, love is private, so I won’t tell you everything he said. But I’ll summarize the last line and I think you’ll get the jest of it.

“Continue being who you are . . . God’s gift to me.”

I got chills just reading his words.

When I saw the guy in the John Deere cap at the store, I was quietly cheering for him because I know that the fire has still got to be in there. After 40 or 50 or 60 years, it might appear that a couple doesn’t shine like they used to, but I have to believe that the currents of affection and appreciation run beneath the surface. Grey hair and tattered work boots don’t have anything to do with the heart.

The note my friend wrote to his wife came from a well that is deep. It reminds me of a love I have known before and gives me hope for a love that holds my future.

If you look for it, you’ll find it. Maybe even on aisle five.

Love is alive. I read about it in a note somewhere.