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- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 2012-08-10 | [Acest text ar trebui citit în english] |
She pulls on white stockings,
steps into spongy white shoes. Except for the crest her uniform is white. Not cold or harsh, the color that keeps you at arm's length, but a careworn shade that says here is some one to comfort you. He pulls on a white undershirt, covers it with a blue shirt, his name over the pocket. The pants are the same shade, made of a material impervious to labor. There is silence. Not the quiet before a storm, a quietude, a soundless conversation about the last 45 years. About children grown and starting their own conversations. About the price of security, and the cost of faith, the value of holding on. About how to forgive, and forget what is forgiven, the balm of reconciliation, and the true purpose of time and healing. About laughing through it all, the joy of seeing it through, and what's behind the knowing smile. About how to become satisfied, sometimes with too much, sometimes with less. About how to give space and when to stay close, finding a hand where it's needed and letting go when it's time. About the unprompted caress, the unexpected embrace, the perfunctory kiss and the bond they cement. About the ritual, the rhythm of today tonight today tomorrow today and the day before. About staying in step, stumbling along, about the waltz of life and the rock of age. And when they have finished dressing there is one last glance, the perfunctory kiss, the knowing smile, and the walk out the door with the life they have made.
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