Saturday, January 30, 2016
One late fall day, he knelt,
A spray of white roses held with trembling hands, a gold and diamond ring,
As he declared his love, and asked for me to share his life,
To be his lover, his friend, his guide.
I said “Yes!”, and we were wed the following June.
With pink rose buds to grace the altar,
We promised love, which would never falter.
Neither mine for him nor his for me has ever wavered.
As the spring showers came and went, we held fast to each other.
I became a mother;
He, a father, a coach, a grandfather,
As we grew old together.
But slowly, slowly he began to forget,
His keys, his home, my name.
His thoughts slipped through his mind, like sand through your fingers.
He could not hold them.
I still loved him.
And I knew he loved me,
But we were not the people we had planned to be.
And then, one bright morning in May,
We were sitting in the garden, side by side,
When with a look of anxious joy
He got down on one knee.
And holding the first red rose of spring,
He asked, again, to marry me.
I looked at him, as he stared at me waiting,
Waiting for what my answer would be.
And I told him as I laughed through my tears,
“Darling, we’ve been married for sixty years.”
The look of joy that lit his face,
Told me once again how much he loved me.
He has gone, gone away,
To the place where all good memories stay.
I am here; I still have life to live.
But I imagine, when we meet again,
Among the celestial beings,
It will be in a rose garden,
On the first day of spring.
By Grace Hanna