Member-only story
Love in the Tender Years
The last touch of a hand, the final words of love
They were married sixty-one years.
High school sweethearts that fell
in love, stayed in love, died in love.
The early years were the troubled
years she said, their later years
the tender years. I had to wait
for forty years for him to grow up
she laughed, but he is worth it.
They napped on the couch
on Sundays, she cuddled in
his arms under a red and gold
quilt made by her mother.
They sat at the bar with his
hand on her leg, they walked
their neighborhood hand in hand,
she sang loudly in church
with his arm around her.
She died slowly, her eightieth
year, he sitting in a chair holding
her hand, her grasp relaxing,
he refusing to let go, the nurse
finally pulling him to his feet,
his children gathered helping
him understand, helping him be
without her for the first time since
he was seventeen and she sixteen.
