|The Hawk (standard:horror, 173 words)|
|Author: Cyrano||Added: Jan 19 2009||Views/Reads: 1635/0||Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)|
|A poem celebrating my Grandmother's love for her husband|
It happens imperceptibly, conversation slackening to silence. The old girl works instinctively, bumpy hands with clacking needles, mind deep in thought. Remembering. Through the stage when forgetful is funny, till the rhythm of relationship is interrupted, never to be the same. No longer to call at will upon intimacy. Lifelong companions, they endure the absurdity of blossoming illness. The once surfeit of warmth, never staunched by sleep, has slipped, finally, into the icy chill of non recognition. Through the window she watches the moon, sailing from behind ponderous cloud, shedding monochrome shadows over the hills and valley. She lowers her head, clacking the needles while Brahms gentles her mind. The old man' sits, staring into the yellow flickering flames, wearing the cardigan she knit him for last Christmas. As a war bride she had known loneliness, yet somehow this was worse, for she knows for certain he is never coming home. Disease spreads through him, like a hawk, picking him clean, leaving just the stone terrace face as a façade to his absence. Tweet
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