Wednesday, September 9, 2009

Holding Hands

The air was fresh and sunlit as it swirled around the Douglas fir. It whipped the towels draped on the railing of the wooden deck. From where I stood looking at the lake, it caught me and undid my hair. I had heard the quarreling voices, each tinged with placing blame on the other’s stooped shoulders.

Time had drained the strength needed to keep the cabin of summer with the lovely little outhouse on the hill. There is no blame to the edge that time softens. He had built it all. On his hands I could see the plan, callused and gnarled. She had softened it with her aproned arms. Many nights they lay beyond the screen, looking at the last ember’s glow of fire, listening to the frog voices echo down the mountain into the cove. Were they holding hands then, in the dark with their youth still visible?

The wind carried his words to me. I’m sorry, turned me to look back as she touched his cheek and smiled. I could see that they were holding hands.

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