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  • Writer's pictureKalan

She Was a Pretty Woman

Her eyes were clear and her laugh was ready, just like it always was. She held my gaze, as she always has.  Her eyes remain hers, untouchable by the thief named dementia. Bright and blue, still full of life. 

His voice was slow and his gaze was strong, as it always has been.  His frame seemingly untouched by the years.  He told me whistfully as he gazed at the black and white photo of her sitting in a chair, legs propped up, wearing the dress he had gifted her as his new wife, “she was a pretty woman”.  My heart grew for a love that stood still. Strong enough to freeze time. 

Their strength stands steady against age. Their bodies and minds embracing the last of them. 

They are part of me. And I am so glad. 


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