It was a film about
growing old.
A man and a woman meet.
Their hair is white,
faces are wrinkled
their eyes shine brightly.
Their embrace is as
warm as a blanket in
winter; they are
grateful for
the sudden warmth.
He asks her to
move in.
She laughs, saying
“And wash your
Underwear?
No thank you.”
She loves him,
nevertheless,
as someone apart
from her, someone
separate…from her.
Not a child
to be taken care of,
to submit to or
compromise one’s
values for.
Her life brightens.
It’s been so long
since she has felt
the warmth of love.
And then he dies.
In an instant.
It's just the
beginning,
and he dies.
And she stands
at the sink in her kitchen
and looks out the
window, which is
so bright
in the silence, so
blinding in the silence,
and she drinks
a glass of water
in the dead quiet
of that room.
The deafening quiet
of that room.
She was much older
than I, and therefore
couldn’t be my future,
nevertheless
I could barely watch her.
The silence
The silence
Was too much to bear.
Today my hair
is white, my face
is lined with
wrinkles.
My eyes shine brightly,
And I look
out my sun-filled
kitchen window
and drink a
glass of water.
And in the dead silence
of that room,
I think
of her.
