THERE WILL BE AN HOUR
- May 29
- 1 min read
By Isaac Thornton
An old man—whose wrinkles
are oft mistaken for blemishes,
but are testimonies to the stories
he could tell—cradles the hand
of his wife and watches as she
trembles in the wheelchair.
There is not much to write about
the wheelchair, other than it is made
of metal, brown as dried blood,
and turns in on itself, much like
she does. Is it heartless for me
to write so much about the chair,
so little about her?
Or is it the heart that moves
me to look down at the concrete,
to think about the lines to describe
her shoes, his shorts, their car,
not the look on their storied
faces, the look that screams:
Please, sweetheart, do not
leave me behind.
I think there will be an hour,
for all of us, where we will cradle
the hand of those we love, while
someone (like me) watches
from the distance and worries
about when their hour
will come.