The rhythmic squeaking from
her rocking chair is
the only sound in the room ...
Scattered at her feet,
on the tea table beside her chair,
resting on her afghan covered lap ...
lie her treasured memories.
Her small, arthritic fingers
clutch the letters and the pictures.
So many ...
Yellowed with time.
Like her, brittle and old.
How old? She's forgotten to keep count.
Ninety, ninety one, she thinks.
Yes ... ninety one years old come December.
They think she's daft.
They haven't heard a spoken word
from her in years and years.
Just sits rocking, alone.
She is not daft.
She is broken, beaten, defeated ...
by life, age, by too many years waiting.
Living inside herself. Alone.
Her hair no longer brilliant,
once shone in the sun.
Her eyes no longer hold
the sparkle of hope and promise
of long ago.
She wears a vacant stare.
Perched on her nose is
triple thick reading glasses.
She reads, looks, rocks, reads, looks, rocks.
Although they are locked within her memory,
she still reads ... intently looks,
one by one, over and over again.
Oh ... he loved her long ago.
The letters and pictures
attest to that.
Pictures of adventures they shared,
every minute in his presence was
an unforgettable adventure.
Over forty years ago...
He simply vanished into the mist ...
... never to be heard from again.
She knows she forever lives
inside his heart and mind.
As he forever lives inside hers.
Growing weary and tired,
she slips off her glasses,
leans her head back ...
drifting to another time.
She can see his face, his smile ...
his magically teasing smile.
Under the star lit sky,
arms around her in embrace and dance.
His lips brush her own, his hands
caress ...
As the young girl comes into the room,
the old lady is jolted from her memories.
She watches, seemingly emotionless,
as the girl once again gathers
the papers and pictures
scattered about the floor.
Stacking them neatly and
gently on the tea table.
The young girl then says the same thing
she always says ...
"time for bed sweet lady."
The old lady looks into the young, vibrant,
sparkling, dark as night eyes.
Reaching to touch the long, fiery red locks.
Uttering not a word.
Lying in darkness, words then come to her.
Her poetic mind busy in the starless nights.
Instinctively reaching for a pen and paper,
she remembers where she is, what she is.
Crippled hands no longer able to hold a pen.
In a frail, barely audible whisper,
she sings her poem to him,
as she does every night.
Turning to the picture
on the night stand,
she blows kisses his way,
as she does every night.
A constant ritual ...
...and in the silence ...
... she can hear his laughter.
