Her eyes are getting worse. The
doctor says it might be the chemo.
She’ll miss things
sometimes
with the mop.
So when he mops again,
when she’s not looking,
so that she’ll never know,
ever,
I think how silent
chocolates,
flowers,
and poems,
are made,
before a real act
of romance,
playing out
on the kitchen floor
of a fifty-five year
marriage.
.
I remember something in a simular vein. A short anecdote written by a plastic surgeon about watching a man kiss his wifes’ scarred lips after unsuccessful reconstructive surgery. And how he moulded his lips aronud the snags and creases upon hers to reassure her that their kisses would still work.
Acts of real love are sometimes so small and yet heartstopping all the same.
Not based on a real story I hope my friend.
Yep, these in fact are my folks. But Mom’s actually doing quite well, responding to treatment. The eye thing looks treatable at this point as well.
This is a very special couple, these two. I don’t ever remember hand-holding or flowers or candy or such. He’s just always been there for her. And she has always been there for him. Every single day. Always. I don’t know…do they even make marriages like that anymore?
My lot are the same. Married forever through thick and thin. My Dad’s had a mini-stroke and a heart-attack to boot this summer. Bless them.
Well, let us hope we are making them perhaps. Realism, pragmatism and downright stubborness will lead us through the valleys of temptation. Romance can live in the basement and be let out on special occaisions.
Just often enough to keep the rest of us hoping…