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