58 Years

I am reorganizing the books on the shelf,

As the young man walks in.

He offers to help,

But I ask him to tell me about his family instead.

He smiles sweetly and talks about how the girl he was sweet on,

Had agreed to marry him.


I’m drinking tea when he comes again,

Excited with the news of a baby on the way.

He rushes off promising he’ll visit me when he can.

I just shake my head,

Knowing he’s in for a world of turmoil and go back to the tea.


He plops down in the chair next to me.

I look up from my book and note the hollow look on his face,

“It’s been awhile. How is your daughter, Martin?”

He looks at me with despair, “Rose, it’s been 58 years,

                                                                                                                She’s dead.”


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