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.

The old one knows, of what is to come. The love and the loss. The first giggle and tear. He still smells the diapers, as they fill with baby waste. Which in turn reminds him of his own. Disgusted with the garment he himself must now wear.

“One hell’ofa turn-a-round, this ol’ life” the elderly man mutters. Habit causing his tongue to flick out and lick the drool, as it tries to trail down a ravine-like wrinkle in his chin.

He hears the laughter of the children and feels the thumps of their feet. Running to Christmas morning. To the tree and the presents beneath. The bike rides, the classes, the dances, and the driving. He sits and remembers.

Like soap suds coasting on wash water. Floating over top of their purpose. Some of his memories are not exact, for his mind grows ever weaker. But the thoughts still contain enough color to show the meaning.  More subtle indication, than a placement of exact time and space. Not that anyone cares but him. Not that anyone dares to care.

Closing his eyes, he envisions the black Oldsmobile with a lone painted star. Which carried the clergy, who held the letter, that opened the news, to the death of his son. This was not a shy recollection, this was a wave. That easily washed and swept his heart along. The ache from the loss, the anger from the theft, it was enough to break him even there. Sitting on his bench.

He remembers her, the feel of his wife. The shake of her laughter or the shudder of her release. Through sex and lust. Through pain and pleasure. Finally revealing his inner most self, his fragile heart. Chancing and succeeding at a true, great love. He remembers her.

Looking at the couple still walking in their happiness, he whispers out “Once, you and I were them, but now they are us”

And the old man uses his crooked cane to pull himself to his feet. Then raises his hand and kisses his worn wedding ring. Still firmly set on it’s finger. Gimping forward he says “I love you Marie” to the one he hopes still hears.

For it is his only hope left. That love still listens.