“Malachi,” she said. “Where have we been
all these many years? The white, starched shirts,
silk ties, my Gucci handbag, pot roast on Sundays…
and four children we don’t really know.

Forty years, drained like running water.
Down a pipe. Where does it go, Malachi?”
He watched the happy light in her eyes
fade to faraway reminiscence.

“Rosie, my love.” He reached for her cheek,
started to answer, then paused to consider the
measure of their lives, the years rolled away.
“It’s gone,” he agreed. His eyes held hers.

A tear rolled from corner of Irish
green eyes, gathered speed as it crested his
apple-shaped cheek. He led her then, gently,
to kitchen sink, turned the water on,

and placed their palms together beneath.
Through tears, he smiled. Her understanding grew.
“Love… flows on.” She spoke the words slowly.
Malachi pulled her closer, held her.

A knowing passed between them that can
only materialize when two people pledge their
very lives to each other, when they live days that
pass too fast side by side, hand in hand.


© 2002, Dawn Richerson

Art: Digital Designs by Dawn, Copyright 2002