Gray eyes, glasses in front;

Balding head, liver spots

As he drinks his coffee,

Reminiscing of times long gone

A slight shake of his grip,

Deep blue veins mark his hands

“1, 2, 3” he hums, the waltz of his day,

Whistling the precious melody

Black cane, with a gilded goose head;

Overlooking two youths holding hands

A grand hall, for a grand day,

A girl dressed in white, with a veil on her head

People walk by him, don’t even glance.

A white dove sits next to him, coos

An illness, body withering, soul crushing.

A smile cemented in his memory

He feeds the dove some bread,

He takes the dove in his hands

A casket, cold and white as snow;

Sorrows and tears shed in times past

He sings to the dove, the waltz he knows so well.

The dove’s eyes looking at his soul

A man with a child walks by.

The child asks what the old man does

“It’s his wedding anniversary,

“He comes ever year and the dove

Sits with him and listens to him”

“What about his wife?” the child asks.

“She died, but she never left him.”

The old man sighs, and sets the dove free.