They walk, like they always do. Enjoying the sun and the clouds. Hand holding. Laughing. And it appears to all that this is a new thing. That this love is a new love. But it is fairly old. Ten years by the by.
They talk of the baby to be, of the life that is living and will breathe. Of the girl growing in the woman this very moment. They dream of what she will look like. What she will smell like. What she will taste, touch, and feel like.
And the elderly man looks and listens of them. While gripping his splintering cane and sucking the cream from his dentures. He comprehends what most don’t, the history and the making of it. And he is envious of the couple’s grand new stage. Of the cycle they now live. Politely jealous of the joy that is written so plainly. He misses it, the love, the warmth. So apparent, so alive. The future still unset casting out rays of hope.
