True

In the coda of life —
amidst the aches
of old bones and the
grasping at abstract
memories —
was when he marveled
most at their differences.

She was his opposite,
an exquisite creation —
an ethereal origami with
spangling decoration —
he was rarely able to
fully appreciate, like a
shimmy of an image on
which he could not focus.

He was more rough,
enjoying the cacophony of
excessive night life —
falling victim to the dragon
that caused his liver to ferment —
and wilder exploits.

It was a wonder to him still,
she had never shelved him,
always took him back,
was here at the end to hold
his hand.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Happy one year anniversary to The Sunday Whirl!