These withered hands,
sorting tinged and faded photos
forgotten in boxes
and cotton,

the lifetimes we have lived
as we tried to figure out this life,
you became a great man's wife,
a mother to children who will
change the world,

and our thoughts are like
canvases spilled over with colors
like dreams from the times we used to know,
over years,
and fears,
and silent sweeping tears,

at times I keep my distance,
from anyone who had once made me safe,
opened the curtains and drew back the drapes,
when I discovered: we all have knives for hands,
and razors for tongues,
and wonder if these boxes of faded photos forgotten,
wrapped in papers and cotton,
will be the sum total of our lives,
or will there be more?

Sometimes you're a charming enigma to me,
you're hard and strong,
but gentle and sweet,
sometimes you're sharp,
other times a healing balm,
a lulling calm,
but ordinary you've never been,
always my trusted friend,

I hope God smiles on your life,
I hope He blesses your children's children's
paths, gives them wisdom and joy that lasts,

and even if I am withdrawn,
it's not because I do not love,
or have gone,
it is because my heart,
has become faded like photos
folded and forgotten,
lost in aged attics beneath dusty cotton,
and my soul,
withered like the hands of our grandfathers,
as I drift forward,
trying to find my way.

Perhaps tomorrow I'll understand,
perhaps today?

DM (C) 2016