On the Washington D.C. Mall there is a ten-foot high statue of my parents. My dad is in his uniform: big star on his chest, helmet strapped under his chin, shield strapped to his back. He's about to break into a run. He could run really fast: almost as fast as a car on the street, which until I was about ten, I didn't realize was unusual. My mom stands next to him at a forty-five degree angle. She's got the headband with the star and the bracers on her forearms, which are with my grandmother now. There is an eagle across her breastplate and belt above her armored leather miniskirt. Her lasso, also with my grandmother now, is at her hip. She's getting ready to unhook it as she too, breaks into a run. The sculpture belongs to the government of the United States. It belongs to everyone. That's a strange feeling…that there was an aspect of my parents' lives that belonged not just to themselves as a couple, and not just to my sister and me and later our own children as a family. I wonder sometimes if it's like that with all kids whose parents are celebrities.

When Sarah and I were young, Dad used to let us play with that shield. I remember the four of us bundling up in our winter coats and trudging up to the big hill at the edge of the property. Dad would lay the shield star-side-down in the snow and I'd sit in the front with my legs crossed. Sarah would get behind me and hook her feet around my legs, and hold onto my waist. Then one or the other of them would give us a huge shove and we'd go speeding downhill, screaming and laughing at the same time. If Mom or Dad got on with us, we practically flew in that shield. I began to understand when I was in high school that the shield had other significance, and how much bloodshed it had endured. He didn't tell Sarah and me a lot of those stories until we were both in our thirties and they'd long since retired.

We were allowed to play with the lasso once, and after that Mom and Dad both forbade it. Sarah and I had used it with our friends to play Truth or Dare. I was eleven so she must've been about thirteen or fourteen. I remember Mom calling parent after parent, mortified with embarrassment and apologizing profusely. I think it was the only time I EVER saw Mom embarrassed about anything having to do with us.

Sarah loves the statues. When she and Nate or any of their kids visit she always makes a pilgrimage there. And yes, I'm talking about Nate Barton. We're part of a superhero lineage I guess—but it's nice to have Clint and Laura still around to tell stories. Anyway when Sarah and her family come out east she makes a kind of pilgrimage and lays daisies at their feet. I prefer to visit the cemetery. It's more intimate. We both always bring daisies. They weren't Mom's favorites, but they were especially sentimental to her because they were blooming when she and Dad first got together. Even when she was really old, Dad would bring her a bouquet every June and she'd get this look on her face and then he'd blush. It was cute in retrospect. Sarah and I have postulated about this. Not that it's pleasant to think about it when they're your own parents, but I'm pretty sure they were sexually active right up to their dying day. Sarah says "no way," and shudders a little when I tell her that. But Pepper more or less verified it for me a few years before she died, and I have no reason to think she was exaggerating. She said it was as if they met, and they were never really whole without being near one another. They were always touching each other: holding hands, hugging, whispering to each other, kissing when they thought we weren't looking. And that never really stopped. It's hard to know how old either of them were chronologically. I'm thinking probably they were in the equivalent of their late eighties or early nineties when they passed. That's a long time to crave one another's touch, not counting the time they were together in the mid-twentieth century. They set a high standard for their daughters' own adult relationships.

It's funny, I'm asked all the time to tell stories about life with them: what it was like to live with famous superheroes, whether there was pressure to live to some high standard or pursue careers in SHIELD or some other governmental agency. They ask about how lonely my sister and I must have been, our parents travelling so much to save the world, and how scared we must have been that they wouldn't come back. But I don't really remember feeling like that growing up. Mom told me that she and Dad had made a deliberate decision after they had Sarah to drop back in their roles as Wonder Woman and Captain America. She said that finding a balance between that huge sense of duty to the world and even deeper sense of duty towards us wasn't always easy, but that putting our family first was always the priority. Dad said that even Mom's gods told them that love was more important than anything else. They didn't want to risk our well-being. They went off active duty altogether by the time we'd finished elementary school. Mom was always a little wistful about it but said she had no regrets.

Dad once admitted that part of the reason for reducing their roles as Avengers also had to do with stress. They fought and sometimes killed side by side. It was never easy knowing that one of them could very well have watched the other die in the thick of things. He said it almost happened a few times. And violence always took a heavy emotional toll on both of them. Just because they were good at it, Dad said to us, didn't mean they enjoyed it. They couldn't go on doing it after a few years. They didn't want fear and violence to be a given in our family. And they didn't tolerate well a life where one was away on a mission and the other remained behind. They couldn't stand being away from each other for that long.

My mom looks so serious in that statue. I'm sure that when she was doing her job she was exactly as fierce as she appears there, but that's not how I remember her. She was almost always smiling. She was always loving. Every scraped knee or teenage heartache, every time I felt like my life was falling apart, she was there with open arms. No one gave better hugs than Mom. It was like she'd gather me up and she had so much love that it spilled from inside her heart, out through her pores, and seeped into my own heart. I have friends who have these fraught relationships with their own mothers, and I've been told that that's normal. But I never doubted how much Mom loved us. She never gave us any reason or room to doubt. Neither did Dad, for that matter.

So I've been asked to write this retrospective on their lives and it's hard to do that from any perspective other than that of their younger child. I'm sure I'll take a lot out of here by the final draft. They've been gone for three years. When I turned sixteen Sarah had just left for college. We'd shared the two rooms in the upstairs of our family's Cape Cod since we were old enough to walk without help. I remember we all piled into a borrowed truck that pulled her small U-Haul of belongings and drove up to Albany to drop her off. Sarah and I had been arguing the whole week up to that point. It was over stupid stuff: a mutually favorite sweater she wanted to take, division of chores until she left and after she was to return, stuff like that. In the past, when we were little, Dad was pretty good at settling those disputes—by giving us both a lot more work to do. I swear it was like he had a cache of projects that he only pulled out for when we argued. But now she was going to be gone for real and I sat in the rear cab of the truck with her. We gripped each other's hands until they were numb.

Mom and Dad both tried to put on brave faces that evening after her dorm was unpacked and one last dinner together was had. I squeezed Sarah goodbye and held on tight, and Mom held back a little. She was always so strong. She didn't want Sarah to see her fall apart, even knowing we'd see her again for Thanksgiving at the very latest. But she kind of went to pieces on the ride back. She really tried not to. She didn't want me to see her like that. It wasn't because she had a problem with me seeing her sad; she didn't want me to think she'd come the rest of the way undone when my turn came to leave in a couple of years. She told us both, each as we left home for the first time, that as much as she'd miss us, being independent and strong as we faced our truths and found our way was her wish for us both. So she did her best to let go.

The other thing I remember from that trip was the conversation I had with Dad when we got back. Mom made herself busy doing *anything* so Dad and I drove into town to get breakfast. That was our go-to whenever it was just him and us, ever since I was about four and Joe's Diner had first opened up on Main Street. It didn't matter what time of day it was, it was always the same meal and the servers all knew what to bring as soon as we found a booth. He'd sit across from us and we'd draw on the backs of the paper placemats with the grubby crayons supplied by the restaurant. God, I can't believe I'm remembering this. We'd ask him for a story and he'd make up some ridiculous scenario and then Sarah and I would draw and narrate the rest of it as it played out, occasionally inserting an idea or two of his. There was something about a cow who liked to take her rocket ship to Jupiter. I wish I remembered the whole thing. What I DO recall is the three of us cracking each other up until I nearly coughed my chocolate milk through my nose, and even then it took us a few minutes to gather ourselves.

Anyway, we sat across from each other that evening and we ordered our pancakes and eggs, and then I flipped over a placemat. I grabbed a red crayon that still had some semblance of a point on it and drew a star. It had been at least six years since we'd played this game. He grinned and drew a circle around my star. I colored the star in red and filled in the circle with a blue border. I started, "Captain America's greatest adventure…" He sat back in his seat and his shoulders sagged a little. He was probably the equivalent of his early 50's then. I remember noticing for the first time the lines around his eyes and the way they faded into his cheeks. He smiled kind of wistfully and said, "Was his entire life with your mother and you girls." He filled a few gaps in my memory and knowledge of my life and the life he and Mom had before us. I remembered staying with Aunt Tash when I was seven and Sarah was nine for a few days and that when he and Mom went to pick me up, they found Sarah and me completely made up. I was clomping around in a pair of high heeled black boots that Natasha had rolled down almost to the ankles for me. Sarah had on really bright pink lipstick. Dad had been seriously pissed off. He asked if I remembered what happened next. "Aside from the hot bath, not much," I told him. "I remember you didn't think it was as funny as Mom did. I figured you thought we looked inappropriate and Sarah and I laughed all night, calling you way-old-fashioned."

Dad laughed at the memory. "Your mom didn't think it was that funny either once we got in the car. You girl's had doused yourselves pretty well with some really strong-smelling perfume. Natasha said she left you two alone for about fifteen minutes and the whole bottle had been emptied. It wasn't a pleasant ride back from the city, to say the least, and it took two weeks to air out the car!" He sat there quietly for a few moments. After the server gave us our food, he told me that from the time Sarah was twelve, and then when I turned that age, he worried a lot about us. He worried about us dating, he worried about boys (to this day I think the few boys who asked us on second dates were incredibly brave, given who my dad was); he worried about us driving, you name it. Sarah looks a lot like Mom, except paler and blonde. I think I balance their features a little more. I'm a little taller than my sister, and have Dad's eyes and Mom's coloring. We both got asked out a lot—but usually only once. When Dad answered the door that was pretty much the end of any chance of a second date. Mom occasionally beat him to the punch and welcomed our dates inside, but even she made it clear that if something unacceptable happened, they'd find out. Then again, Mom and Aunt Tash both taught us how to defend ourselves from the time we could walk. And Grandmother taught us how to use weapons. Dad said he and Grandmother butted heads about that all the time, until we started dating and then made a point of telling our boyfriends that we could stab them should we choose.

He had another forkful of eggs, and then reached over and drew a picture of Mom's breastplate with a yellow crayon. "Your mother," he told me, was the beginning of his life. I remember his exact words: "I was born in 1920, but I wasn't alive until I met your mom." I'd never heard him say that before, even though I knew he loved her. "Always remember this," he said. "Your mother taught this to me: only love matters. Responsibility, honor, courage…each and any other good quality you have, and you have lots, start with love, Joie. Nothing I did in my life meant much until I fell in love with your mother, and realized she loved me just as much." He went on to say that when Mom was pregnant with Sarah, they weren't sure how to readjust their dangerous lives, and that Mom went through a kind of identity crisis. She'd been a warrior almost literally forever. So she took that courage and intensity and refocused it on Sarah and him and a couple of years later, on me. He said it took them a few more years to hang up the costumes for good. But I don't remember them being away that much or even seeing them in full gear much except in pictures. "We didn't want that life for either of you. Your mother was an emissary of peace, and we'd both seen too much violence and war. Loving each other and loving you was our greatest mission." That's not to say they never disagreed or argued. He said he and Mom got into a big argument once because she flew the invisible jet up into the air with us, and let us take turns operating it. We must've been eight and ten or so. It's the only one, aside from when Dad found the package of condoms in Sarah's backpack that Mom had given her. It was a couple of years before college. I have very strong memories of them yelling at one another over that one.

He told me the more detailed version of the fight for time itself when he and Mom had just gotten engaged, and, even though to that day it pained him to talk about it, the battle with the gods a year later, where he and Mom both nearly died. I feel like I'm meandering through this writing. I'll definitely edit. He told me about the crazy trials that Grandmother had set up for them to go through, and about Mom's decision to become mortal, and about the day Hades granted her two wishes: to never have to live without him, not even for a minute, and for him to see my grandparents once more. I'm named after my grandfather. Dad told me all the time how much he and my Grandma Sarah would have adored me and my sister.

Mom's mother practically worships us. "So does your mother, for that matter," Dad said to me. Ever since elementary school I was in a drama club. I liked pretending to be other people; I was always a little dramatic from the get-go anyway, and frankly, I wanted to do something other than sports, like Sarah. That was kind of her bonding thing with Dad. But Mom would help me practice my lines and we'd act out scenes from any play I brought home. We especially loved acting out Shakespeare. She supported every artistic endeavor I explored, actually. Dad was the artist, she'd say, but she was the proudest patron anyone could hope for. Mom used to take me out into the front yard and we'd make up entire worlds together when I was smaller. That big oak tree and the swings attached to that one branch were pirate ships, mountains, castles, towers, and anything else I came up with. And every pretend play session ended with her pushing me on a swing so high that I would be almost parallel with the branch. Then I'd jump into mid-air and she'd fly up and catch me, and we'd go all the way up to the highest branch. I'd straddle the branch and lean against her, and she'd braid my hair while she told me stories about the gods, the heroes of my heritage, and of course, my warrior queen grandmother. Sometimes Sarah joined us, but she usually preferred something more organized, like an actual sport. Mom was always down for that too, but those special, her-and-me-in-the-tree occasions are some of my most special memories.

Now I'm crying. I am a twice-married, nearly sixty-year-old woman with children and a grandchild, and crying for my parents. Last year when Sarah was visiting we picked Tash up from her apartment and took her out to lunch. She was a close friend to both Mom and Dad. She's the one who was always able to supply us with the more intimate details of our parents' lives: the way Dad was too nervous to even kiss her for several months, the huge, public blow-out fights Mom had with Grandmother, the gruesome details of the time Mom was stabbed, and later Dad, and when Bruce disappeared. Tash also was happy to tell us stories about all the times, both before and after we were born, that they were caught on the very edge of inappropriate public displays of affection at work. She said it was a miracle they ever accomplished anything, really.

It isn't hard to imagine, partly because I've seen it myself. Whatever soldier serum that coursed through Dad's blood, and however much Mom's previous immortality and goddess-given gifts she sustained retarded their physical aging by a lot. If Mom and Dad was the equivalent of Eighty-five when they died, no one would have guessed it by looking at them. They looked like they were barely into their sixties. They certainly had the energy and enthusiasm for life unmatched by any senior citizen I've ever known, even Tash. I miss her. I miss Bruce, and Tony, and Pepper and Thor. With Mom and Dad, they gave us an amazing life. Tony said we were the daughters he never had. He and Pepper always told us how grateful they were to our parents for letting them be such important parts of our lives.

I'm getting away from the main idea as I ramble here, but I swear I'll circle back to it. I of course have some living ties to my parents' past because Grandmother is immortal. Some of my best memories are of vacations in Themyscira, where Sarah and I were literally treated as princesses. And Grandmother thought we should be deified, of course. It was difficult for her, watching Mom age and eventually die. She told us though, that our parents had a different kind of immortality, in another place where time is meaningless. They are in their bodies from the prime of their lives. They don't have to fight anymore (I'd be shocked if they didn't spar a whole lot). Grandmother described, basically, Themyscira but somehow even more beautiful. She offered to petition the gods for us to see them again, like Dad got to do so long ago. Sarah doesn't think she'd be able to hold it together. I'm not sure I would resist begging them to return for just a little longer.

Mom chose to be mortal at the same time that Dad chose not to allow Hippolyta to make him immortal. They told us that what gives life value is knowing how fleeting it is. It's knowing that every little moment is full of wonderful potential if we allow ourselves to experience it. We take living fully for granted if we know we'll never die. This why Sarah and I also chose to remain here on Earth rather than stay with Grandmother forever. Our own children and grandchildren, I'm sure, will have that decision to make as well.

That being said, my parents are, as far as Grandmother knows, living happily and peacefully in Hades. They are in the afterlife awarded to the heroes of my mother's past: Perseus, Heracles, Odysseus, Socrates, and others. The next June after they passed, astronomers found a new constellation in the heavens. A man with a shield strapped to his back and a woman with long hair and a lasso at her hip embrace each other. My parents will live on forever in the heavens, in spirit, in their stories, and in the blood of the family they loved so well. Sarah and I both stared up into the night sky at that news. She said, "They deserve it. Of anyone who could ever be immortal, they understand that each moment has value with love." I agree.

So that decision brings me back to that strange juxtaposition in my mind of statues and headstones and stars. All are meant as permanent reminders of people who are important to someone else. All that is left of Wonder Woman and Captain America is their story and a statue though. The rest of them lives on more intimately with those of us who are carrying on in life. I intend to provide at some point, as unvarnished of an account as possible of their meeting and their lives together before Sarah and I came along. Even statues degrade over time, just like those from my mother's Ancient Greece. Headstones fade. So I have chosen to give them this additional immortality, so that no one will forget their example of what it is like when you live and love as courageously, fully, and completely as possible every second of your life.

Fields of Elysia

About an hour before he closed his eyes, he and Diana had just said their last goodbyes with their resigned and tearful children, grandchildren, and great grandson. Death, he knows, is immanent—maybe another few hours to a couple of days. It's time. "We have seen everything and we have done everything," He'd said to them. "We are leaving this world in the most capable, brilliant, and loving hands ever," Diana added. Her voice was soft and tired. "We've done enough, and we've squeezed as much life and joy out of every moment that we could, and have loved with every ounce of our beings. And we've seen all of you do the same as you've grown. Keep living and loving. That is the legacy we leave you with." She hardly had any voice left at that point. Her breath is starting to leave once and for all as he fades, as planned. One by one, they kissed and embraced the ones they love most: Sarah and Josephine, the sons in law, both granddaughters and one grandson, who held his own son out for them to touch one more time. Like Diana, Steve was also so tired. "It's your turn. We believe in you," he managed to say. Sarah closed the door behind her. After it clicked shut, Diana reached into her nightstand drawer and removed from it a small velvet bag. From it, she removed two very old looking coins. She kissed his lips and slid a coin under each of their tongues.

His first thought is that he hasn't rested that well in a long time. Eyes still closed, he extends his arms past his head and stretches deliciously from head to toe. He rolls onto his side with his head resting on an outstretched arm. The pillow must have fallen on the floor. The bed feels different. He opens his eyes and tenses, unsure of what had happened. He has been sleeping in the grass someplace. Daybreak has just begun and the sky yawns sleepily in hues of purple and pink. He is naked. Next to him, Diana is asleep, also naked. Her long, black hair splays past her shoulders and onto the grass, and her breath is even and soft. For a moment, he forgets that she no longer wears her hair that long, and it hasn't been that deeply black for years. Her face is smooth and a smile hovers around the edges of her mouth as she dreams. Just behind her are her pale pink tunic and his shorts and t-shirt, folded neatly.

He runs his hand over his head. There is more hair than there ought to be. His body, which regardless of unchangingly good muscle tone has progressively succumbed to arthritis, feels painless. It feels good, actually. He's dreaming again. He's pretty sure he's been here in dreams a few times in the last eight weeks. In his dream, he tries to touch Diana but his hand goes straight through, as if she were a ghost. When he whispers her name and she opens her eyes, he opens his and he wakes up in his own body, next to her body, which he has loved in every way possible every day for more than half of a century. He has loved her for more than a hundred years. He stretches and inhales deeply once more, then touches Diana's shoulder. His hand touches skin. "Diana?"

She opens her eyes. They are bright and deep, and he doesn't wake up like he's supposed to. He hopes the dream goes on for a while longer. Without changing her position on her side, she looks around, and then reaches out to him. She smiles that same smile that inevitably signals his entire being to awaken. As always happens when she looks him straight in the eyes and he knows that he is all she sees, a jolt of electricity sparks and sends a current from the pit of his stomach to down between his legs. "Welcome to forever, my love," She says. Her voice is steady and firm. She takes his forearm and pulls him in closer.

She kisses him and he starts to cry, afraid that he might wake up too soon. He kisses her back and lets his face wet her own. Except for when work separated them, they have made love every morning for fifty-five years not counting the time before they got married. They had done so just hours before he closed his eyes in bed, albeit much more gently and slowly than they used to. But her tongue presses gently and insistently past his lips and darts around the insides of his cheeks. Her breath is warm and spicy-sweet. He doesn't usually notice scent in his dreams. He moves in closer. Putting his hand on her shoulder, he guides her onto her back. Her shoulders, breasts, stomach, and thighs are firm, whereas just a day ago they spent an hour moving their hands over one another's delicate, papery bodies. She smiles up at him again and cradles his jaw in her hand. It's firm. He can't stop looking at her. He remembers a time in Themyscira when she lay under him just like this, one hand cupping his face gently, the other arm crooked behind her head on the ground. The ground smells like meadow and beach combined. There is something vaguely sweet, like lilacs but not quite, mixed with the distinctive, clean scent of the Ionian Sea.

He doesn't want to think anymore. He leans in and kisses the space behind her jaw that always makes her sigh and shiver, and she does exactly that. It's a sound that sends another chain reaction from his ears downward. He kisses her throat and then puts his mouth over one breast at a time. She keeps one arm on the ground past her head, and she moves her other hand along the ridges of his pectorals and abdomen, up his spine and the demarcation of muscles along his back, then down to his buttocks, where she pulls him closer to her. Then she props herself up on one arm and kisses him again. She opens his mouth with hers, and draws his tongue into her. He does the same and they smile into one another's lips.

She rolls him onto his back and sits on his thighs. He is hard against her belly and she holds him closer against it, lightly tracing her finger around and over the head. Somewhere in the back of his mind this is still a dream. He reaches up and caresses a breast in each hand, and rolls his thumbs over her nipples. They get hard. She shudders and then she lifts herself up over him. They merge into each other. She is the warm and wet. She's like some exotic jungle flower soaked from the pouring rain. They move slowly at first and he keeps his eyes open so he doesn't miss anything. He circles an index finger around that one spot inside of her, just above where their bodies connect. She closes her eyes and sighs, "Oh Steve, oh my love." With that, with the sound of Diana approaching ecstasy, they move faster. Her breath quickens and her entire torso ripples above him.

He can't get close enough to her. Without separating from one another, he rolls on top of her. She reaches down and grabs his buttocks again to pull him deeper inside. She exhales sharply as her back arches and her breasts press so close into him that their hearts beat into each other. Their hearts are beating. This fact registers someplace in his brain. They have pulses. They are breathing. Their torsos, slick with sweat, slip over and around one another. He licks the space between her breasts. They taste warm and salty, as if she was made of an ocean. She moans his name again so he runs his tongue around and between each breast a couple more times before he brings his face parallel to hers. Her eyes are closed and even though she hates the comparison, she looks like a strange angel. She is simultaneously beatific and carnal.

He lowers his head and they open their mouths widely, as if there was some additional way to get inside of each other. Her hips rock faster and she squeezes around him from the inside. He can't remember the last time he felt this full, with his balls pulsing and almost every drop of blood in him surging through his penis. He feels her tremble underneath him and she hooks her legs under and around his. She presses the back of his head to her so that their mouths stay in contact. She takes little, gasping breaths. They are breathing for one another. They are breathing. Their hearts are beating. They have real, quickening pulses. She shakes harder, arcs up again and crosses her ankles around his back. He's inside of and holding onto an earthquake. They are so close together when they climax that he is sure he feels hers and she feels his. Hearts aligned, mouths swallowing one another, he thinks that he might even die in his dream. He stays on top of her for a few moments and props himself up on his arms. He is still memorizing this memory of Diana relaxed and satisfied, and that tender smile when she meets his gaze. She says, "Forever and ever" again.

This might not be a dream. She rests her head over his armpit and they reach across each other's bodies to interlace their fingers. They watch quietly as the sun slowly rolls into the sky directly overhead, warming them. Without warning, Diana gets to her feet and walks toward the sand and lapping water just beyond the grass. He hadn't noticed that earlier. Mostly he notices his now-empty hand and the absence of her body next to him. He stays put though and watches as she submerge herself. He does his best to burn every inch of her into his brain. She has always been beautiful to him, from the time they met in 1942 to just before this moment, but he still wants to remember when he wakes up: the perfect hourglass of her body, her long hair blowing backward from the slight breeze, her tall, confident posture, the grace in each stride. She wades in waist-deep and then turns around and extends her arms to him.

In his dreams, when Diana beckons, he goes to her as if in a trance. He feels completely alive and in control of his actions as he stands up. Nothing hurts. His back and neck still don't burn, his hips and knees don't ache. He stands up as if he were getting ready to pull out his Captain America suit. He goes to her. His stride is long and purposeful. He goes to her the way he would when they'd get home from a mission, or home from work while the kids were away and they didn't want to waste a moment. He walks toward her as if he were helping along the pull of a magnet. The ground is soft and firm. Thick, cushiony grass gives way to fine, soft sand. The water is slightly cool at first. He meets her where she stands, and they swim out farther, until they're almost up to their necks. The ocean shimmers around them and he smells its salt. She folds into him, arms around his neck and legs around his waist. He stands firm against the ground that slips around them with the tide. He wraps one arm around her back and supports her buttocks with the other arm. Her eyes are as wide and blue as the water and sky around them.

"Not a dream," he says tentatively, testing to see if it's true.

"Not a dream," she replies with conviction, and presses her salt-stung lips to his. He feels like he's going to cry again. This is more or less how they began: he was on an unfamiliar beach, and there was a captivating young woman gazing down at him with curiosity and compassion. But he is not broken, like he was when his body washed up on the shores of Themyscira, and he knows everything there is to know about her: her mind, her heart, her body. This is real. This is their forever and ever. He's definitely tearing up again, but so is she. He notices that she has on her engagement ring and wedding band, even though he is sure she gave one to Sarah and one to Josephine. He still wears his as well, even though he'd left it to Anthony, their great grandson. So he says the only other thing that needs to be said right now, even though it's a given. "I love you, Diana. I love you forever and always."

She leans in, touching her forehead to his. She slides her hand to his heart, which is beats evenly into her palm. "I love you, too, Steve. Forever and always."

They allow the waves to carry them, little by little, closer to dry land. Neither of them resist, they simply hold each other tightly and allow themselves to be transported. Eventually they swim back to the water's edge and, once again, discover each other—all the things they'd left behind with age. They sit side by side on the wet sand with their thighs and arms touching and watch the water recede from under their feet as the tide goes out. He takes a deep breath and exhales slowly. He thinks, in rhythm with the waves, "I am here. I am here. I am." Diana looks up at him, her eyes smiling. She leans in and closes her eyes. Steve Rogers kisses his wife.