a door closes
and I hear him
shuffling down the hallway
his wife of sixty-six years
my mother
asleep, almost invisible
beneath the blankets
as fragile as a baby bird
he stops to wind
the grandfather clock
smiles and nods
“I smell that coffee”
ninety years-old
and still "up-and-at-em”
pills to ration
a newspaper to fetch
dishes to put away
meanwhile
back in their room
dreaming
she remembers
everything
standing by his side
she turns to meet his eyes
Tom Spencer © 2019
May 21, 2019
May 21, 2019 at 7:42 AM UTC
a door closes
and I hear him
shuffling down the hallway
his wife of sixty-six years
my mother
asleep, almost invisible
beneath the blankets
as fragile as a baby bird
he stops to wind
the grandfather clock
smiles and nods
“I smell that coffee”
ninety years-old
and still "up-and-at-em”
pills to ration
a newspaper to fetch
dishes to put away
meanwhile
back in their room
dreaming
she remembers
everything
standing by his side
she turns to meet his eyes
Tom Spencer © 2019
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