I met a sweet older woman on the train one day and this is what she told me...
Her face was aging, and yet there was a soft loveliness, I saw my future in my new friend, not far away.
She spoke of losing her husband, as I have lost mine, and how there would never be another love in her life.
A concert pianist, she was, showing her hands that were quite wrinkled,
but playing for family and friends still brought her enjoyment.
She carried a large colorful tapestry handbag, one time very fashionable, it had a black leather handle that she held tightly.
While talking lovingly of her husband, my friend opened her handbag, she took out a large man's hankerchief and unwrapped it carefully.
She went on to explain how she found "Honey" slumped over the edge of their bed holding the shoe horn.
His lifeless body was pale, perspiration still on his bushy brow, speaking of the shoe horn brought tears to her eyes.
I loved that old man, and this is what I carry, the last thing he touched was this tortoise colored shoe horn.
That's what my new friend told me, what a loving story.
Her husband died over thirty years ago....and yet he lives...
Poetry by Victoria Pearson
Read 764 times
Written on 2006-06-12 at 03:30
Tags Shoehorn
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The Tortoise Shoe Horn
I met a new friend today, a little older she was, than I, with silver gray hair piled high upon her head.Her face was aging, and yet there was a soft loveliness, I saw my future in my new friend, not far away.
She spoke of losing her husband, as I have lost mine, and how there would never be another love in her life.
A concert pianist, she was, showing her hands that were quite wrinkled,
but playing for family and friends still brought her enjoyment.
She carried a large colorful tapestry handbag, one time very fashionable, it had a black leather handle that she held tightly.
While talking lovingly of her husband, my friend opened her handbag, she took out a large man's hankerchief and unwrapped it carefully.
She went on to explain how she found "Honey" slumped over the edge of their bed holding the shoe horn.
His lifeless body was pale, perspiration still on his bushy brow, speaking of the shoe horn brought tears to her eyes.
I loved that old man, and this is what I carry, the last thing he touched was this tortoise colored shoe horn.
That's what my new friend told me, what a loving story.
Her husband died over thirty years ago....and yet he lives...
Poetry by Victoria Pearson
Read 764 times
Written on 2006-06-12 at 03:30
Tags Shoehorn
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text
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