He stands behind her favorite chair,
Following a rhythm as he brushes her hair.
A touch of gray and just a spatter of white,
The dullness came to life in the sunlight.
He speaks to her of people they had known,
And my how their grandchildren have grown.
He bent and whispered softly, “I still love you,”
Reflection in the mirror, she still had no clue.
Trying to bring her back, he took many chances,
Remembering their youth and high school dances.
Her dancing days were over, her thoughts had flown away,
And now she did not think of tomorrow nor yesterday.
The brush works through, in the mirror he catches her eyes,
The blank empty look makes him want to cry.
She remembers she forgets, her mind disappears,
But he still loves her after marriage for forty years.
© Cynthia Clark