The old man felt an energy wash over him
And he knew immediately
Sitting in that old leather armchair that had worn down
to a polished shine
It would soon be time
Wearily he glanced over at his wife
Hunched crookedly, wrapped in a black woollen shawl
She was lost in her knitting
A world away
But for the clock counting off his last
few seconds
And his heavy, laboured breaths
The room was still
As if those two aged souls were living in a vacuum where
the birds they sang no more
Dusty, musty curtains of faded fabric
Yellowed photographs on the mantle of absent friends
The matted, tattered red rug spread across the floor
This was a museum
The sins now came to him
So many were unforgivable
He was not a religious man
Still he studied his limp, leathered hands of twisted veins
and aching bones and pondered all they’d done so
wrong
Again, turning to his wife
It was closer now
She had borne the brunt of a lifetime of his misdeeds
The clock ticked by
Yet here she was with him in this museum
Knitting for no-one
Living to will away his aches and pains
Living for the same love that began with an autumn glance
‘I’m sorry I made it so hard’,
he whispered
The knitting paused
‘Come now, none of that’, she replied and returned undeterred
It was forgotten
 But a moment later her thoughts returned
She paused again
She looked up
And he was gone
Now his words called to her heart
They composed a hymn of sweet and joyful redemption
Soon they would curb her grief
And bring more light into the few days she had left in
that quiet museum
Ezy Reading is out every Monday. |
