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His wrinkled hands told stories.
His raspy voice asked the nurse when he could go home.
He didn’t remember much.
Except to ask me to bring him some beer.
I sat beside him on his small twin bed
That’s when he brought up Mary.
Stories of drive in movies
On late Friday nights.
Her father hated him.
A rebel child no good for his darling daughter.
His leather jacket draped on her dainty shoulders.
Cherry cokes and midnight walks down
Dark streets with nothing but a silver moon and streetlights.
Child like sand castles in the wet sand on weekend trips to Maine
And snowmen next to tall green pines in late December.
Fifty seasons of love and ever after.
If eyes could smile I swear his did
As he told me of the time he threw pebbles at her window.
A pale blue dress against a firefly sky
As she ran gracefully across the yard to the car he’d stolen from his uncle
Half past 1 in the morning.
Over the years she stole his heart.
They married on his father’s farm.
He said love is simple
Don’t try to complicate it.
The sun fell
And his stories faded into mumbled words.
Before I left
He fumbled in his pocket
And pulled out a red rose and asked me that I lay it upon her grave.
His eyes closed as I shut the shades
And he drifted off into dreams that I didn’t know about.