I will post the story later, but here is a poem that I wrote five days ago. She was the greatest treasure….
Beside her bed, I hold her hand,
See her arm in purple shades like
Menacing clouds, that she –
The artist – would likely
Call Payne’s Grey;
Her other arm in venal relief
Equally shaded, like an ironic gauntlet
For the life-enhancing nutrients
On their journey from bag to body.
When we were young
We never bruised – our perfect
Bodies, mistreated by youth,
Resilient and impervious.
Now we have seen and walked
The years which teach and,
Though hesitant to call them friends,
Have learnt through wound and bruise,
A way of love and care
That is slower, deeper
Than those young hearts dreamt.
We did dream
Of growing old together,
Of walks and conversations
And grandchildren; of miracles,
Transformations and freedom,
Never thinking of the depth
That the bruises would plumb in us –
Never conceiving that the path of love
Is hard won, that the wounds shared
Would be anchor points of joy
As our hearts strengthened
The eyes that once held wonder
And promises unknown, now
Are known wells of grace from which
I draw daily my familiar unspoken
Blessing, with always the richness
Of something far deeper.
Beside her bed, I hold her hand
And caress the bruises that
I wish I could share.