I used to think that elder love, if it even existed, was confined to rocking chairs or golf carts, that it had to be a dull business because of the physical limitations of age. Failing memory would make interesting conversation impossible, and old people didn’t seem inclined or able to participate in the lovely stuff of love — sadly, because what better way to get through that wretchedly boring, painful and terrifying period we call our golden years? So I certainly wasn’t looking for love when I met George. At 83, he was recently widowed, and I was a long-divorced 71.