I
have a story to tell, her eyes beseeched.
Fragile
emerald veins, the evidence of the years cobwebbing across pale, white skin. A faint
pulse ticks the passing seconds, each one a reminder of the memories lived with
each inhale and exhale of breath.
Her
hands are still elegant, with only a faded wedding band on her slim tapered
fingers. These hands held his in a sunlit meadow, put the ring on her husband’s
on their wedding day, and cradled her children, soothed cuts, bruises and
combed back unruly curls.
Lips
that were once rosy and full, now a shadow of whispered love, of bedtime stories and kisses that
cured scraped knees and wise words that balmed broken hearts. Sometimes, they remember her,
always armed with a winsome smile and a razor sharp retort for low esteem days,
kind words for dark days, and a joke for days when even the clouds seem heavier
and burdened.
But
it is her eyes that do the speaking. These cool calm pools belying the feisty
outspoken girl, the willful teenager, and the courageous woman. It is her eyes
that are arresting, hooked up on tubes and often alone, her eyes blaze with the
life that refuses to be tamed down simply because time lost the tag team race
with age.
I
have a story to tell, her eyes beseeched.
*** How often we forget the elderly and the wonderful lives they've led. How often we forsake to see that we're but a bud grafted onto the trees nurtured by the ones who lived and saw these things way before we ever did ***
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