silverwheel
Bluelighter
My wife of black hair
wears her blue formal dress
as we walk into the train station,
out of the chill and fog
of my father’s death.
In locked arms, we wait.
As she leans her head onto my shoulder,
I notice that her hair, once as black
as the notes of a scale,
is greyed and strung.
I can feel this coarseness,
but my own hand is wrinkled and frail,
the knuckles and fingers
protruding like sickly bones.
I do not know what my own face
resembles anymore,
but her eyes break through me
with the weariness of arthritic pain.
So this is what I am traveling towards.
As she pulls at my arm for strength,
I begin to weep.
wears her blue formal dress
as we walk into the train station,
out of the chill and fog
of my father’s death.
In locked arms, we wait.
As she leans her head onto my shoulder,
I notice that her hair, once as black
as the notes of a scale,
is greyed and strung.
I can feel this coarseness,
but my own hand is wrinkled and frail,
the knuckles and fingers
protruding like sickly bones.
I do not know what my own face
resembles anymore,
but her eyes break through me
with the weariness of arthritic pain.
So this is what I am traveling towards.
As she pulls at my arm for strength,
I begin to weep.
