The doorbell rang at 8:00 a.m.
A quiet Tuesday morning.
Arlene opened the door and smiled.
“Loretta! You’re early.”
“I couldn’t sleep,” Loretta Swit said.
“Thought I’d come see my favorite patient.”
“He’s in the garden,” Arlene replied.

“Just finished breakfast.”
“Perfect. I’ll take him for a walk.”
“A walk?” Arlene laughed. “He’s in a wheelchair.”
“Then I’ll take him for a roll.”
Loretta moved through the house she knew by heart.
The same hallway.
The same walls covered in photos.
Family.

Friends.
And 53 years of MAS*H memories.
She found him in the garden.
Alan Alda, 89 years old,
sitting in his wheelchair,
looking at the roses.
“Hey, Alda.”
He turned.

That smile appeared.
The Hawkeye smile.
Still there.
“Hot Lips,” he said. “You’re early.”
“I missed you.”
“You saw me last week.”
“A week is too long at our age.”
She stepped behind his wheelchair.
“Ready for our walk?”

“Where are we going?”
“Around the block. Like always.”
“I don’t know if I’m up for it today.”
“I didn’t ask if you were up for it,” she said.
“I told you. Now be quiet and enjoy the ride.”
Alan laughed.
“Still bossy after 53 years.”
“Someone has to be. You’d rot in this garden if I let you.”
“I would not.”

“You absolutely would. Let’s go.”
She pushed him down the driveway.
Slowly.
The morning sun was warm.

Birds sang.
Los Angeles was waking up.
“Do you remember the first time we met?” Alan asked.
“1972,” he said softly.
“You walked onto the set and I thought, Who is this woman?”

“You thought I was the catering girl.”
“I did not.”
“You asked me for coffee.”
“You were standing near the coffee!”
“I was standing near my trailer.”
They laughed.
An old argument.
Told a thousand times.
Still funny.

“You were terrifying back then,” Alan said.
“I was focused.”
“No, you were terrifying. Loretta. Not Margaret.”
“Good,” she said. “You should’ve been scared of me.”
They turned the corner.
Passed the oak tree they’d walked by hundreds of times.
“Remember the OR scenes?” Loretta said.
“Twelve hours. Fake blood everywhere.”
“We were young,” Alan smiled.

“And stupid.”
“We were happy,” she corrected him.
Somewhere along the walk, Alan hesitated.
“Were we really happy?” he asked.
“Some days I can’t remember. Parkinson’s takes things.”
Loretta stopped the chair.
“Yes, we were happy,” she said gently.
“I remember for both of us.”
They reached the bench.

“Let’s sit,” she said.
“You sit. I’m already sitting permanently.”
“Smart mouth.”
She sat facing him and studied his face.

The wrinkles.
The shaking hands.
The years.
Still Alan.
Still her Alan.
“Do you remember the finale?” she asked.
“Goodbye, Farewell and Amen.”
“I remember some of it.”
“The kiss,” she said quietly.
His eyes lit up.

“I remember every kiss,” Alan said.
“Even when I forget everything else.”
“That kiss wasn’t in the script,” she whispered.
“I know. I improvised.”

“You always did.”
“And you never complained.”
“I never wanted to.”
They sat in silence as the sun climbed higher.
Then Loretta spoke again.
“Alan… I need you to promise me something.”
“What?”
“I need you to be happy.”
He frowned.

“Why are you talking like this?”
“Just promise me.”
“I promise. But why—”
“Because that’s what I’ve always wanted for you,” she said.
“For 53 years.”
“To laugh.
To live.
Even when it’s hard.”
He looked at her closely.

“You’re talking like you’re leaving.”
She smiled.
“I’m not going anywhere,” she said.
“We just don’t know how many walks we have left.”
He took her hand with trembling fingers.
“Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.”
“Then stop talking like this is goodbye.”
“It’s not goodbye,” she said softly.
“It’s a reminder.”

“A reminder of what?”
“That I love you.”
She knelt in front of him, knees aching.
“I love you, Alan Alda,” she said.

“Not like a wife.
Not like a romance.”
“Like a soul loves another soul.”
“You are my best friend.
My brother.
My greatest gift.”
Alan cried.
“Good,” she said, hugging him.
“Crying is healthy.”
They finished the walk.
Back to the garden.
Back to the roses.
“Same time next week?” she asked.
“Same time,” he said.

“My mind forgets things, but it never forgets you.”
She leaned down.
And kissed his forehead.
Soft.
Gentle.
“Be happy, Alan,” she whispered.
“For me.”
“I promise.”
She waved and drove away.

One week later, the phone rang.
“Alan,” Mike Farrell said.
“It’s Loretta.”
“What about her?”
Silence.
“She passed this morning. In her sleep.”
The phone slipped from Alan’s hand.
Suddenly, he was back on that sidewalk.
That walk.
That kiss.

She knew.
Somehow, she knew.
That’s why she came early.
That’s why she made him promise.
Because she wanted their last moment to be happy.
Months later, on his 90th birthday, people asked Alan what he wanted.
“Nothing,” he said.
But that wasn’t true.
He wanted one more walk.

One more laugh.
One more kiss on the forehead.
But he had the memory.
And it was enough.

Even when Parkinson’s takes everything else…
That memory stays.
“Be happy, Alan.”
Her last words.
And he would keep them.
For the rest of his days.