Every evening,
I watch the old man
cross the road
to the local cemetery.
The winter air is evident,
the cold wind biting and gnawing,
ruthless within all lungs
but mine.
I lost those a long time ago.
And I wonder,
does the bitter breeze
sear his eyes
the way they used to sear mine?
Nobody
seems to notice him.
I do, only,
it is much too late
for me to care.
It was traffic,
I watched them say
to my parents.
She was in the middle of a busy road.
Your daughter died from the traffic.
Oh.
How tragic.
Now I am but an
observer,
with this elder as the
star
to my film.
And every evening,
despite his fragile knees,
and his frosted fingertips,
the old man never fails
to bring his rag.
Taking the trusty cloth,
he gingerly removes the cruel traces
time has left
on each stone.
And even with palms coarse from wear,
he is gentle,
tenderly brushing over
the heads
of those previously loved.
I watch him kiss
and caress
the souls
lost to the earth.
His touch is warm,
a feeling I often forget,
from a time when I used to produce
such a heat myself.
I yearn for more.
Yet,
this evening,
he is nowhere to be seen.
I drift elsewhere,
eager to fill my endless hours
with something more interesting
than an empty cemetery.
I find myself
at the street he always crosses.
It’s fairly busy today, with
quite a bit
of traffic.
…
Oh.
How tragic.
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