They sit, smiling: laughter caught on their faces, in the corners of
their mouths, the crinkling of their eyes, a spontaneous embrace—
joy can be captured—frozen, yet warm—aglow in the patina of the fading
photograph—continuing beyond the brief click of the shutter—lasting
beyond the years of growth of the young children into adults…
They sit: animated, but still; quiet, peaceful; on the edge of their lives, but in balance for the moment.
In the retirement home, she sets down the photograph and thinks, “what’s at rest, stays at rest”, and closes her eyes.
In the cold, stillness of winter, good fortune frozen on the wind,
the remaining leaves hanging lifeless from glittering twigs, a man sits,
static, like an oil painting, framed by the icicle-bejewelled window
edges. His battered, dusty cowboy hat lies on the floor beside him, as
if dropped a season ago like the Autumn leaves by the wind and left to
decay. His eyes, unfocused, as if he would see through people and not
He remembers the wind of winters long ago: the snow
spiralling down, her love bright like glitter, a picture of kindness, a
warmth like summer, stilling his hands with her own.
The copyright of this post belongs to Monica Jenkins