Portrait of Love

The doorbell rang. She wasn’t expecting anyone.

Pensively she peaked out the window. A smile curved her lips.

Opening the door she forced back the tears.

He tipped his derby hat. Always the gentleman.

“My dear, these are for you.”

Pink starlight lilies were her favorite. Not red roses. He remembered.

“I was thinking of you and thought these might brighten your day, my love.”

She invited him into their home and took the flowers from his wrinkled hand.

She admired their beauty and placed them in a vase.

She slipped her arms around his waist and buried her face in his neck.

After fifty-three years, his scent still brought her peace.

They clung to each other and cried only for a moment.

“I still miss him so much,” she said. “As do I, love. As do I,” he replied.

He stroked her gray hair.

Twenty years ago their son had died. Already twenty years.

His gesture of love was different every year.

Always tender. Always meaningful.

“I love you, my dear, even more than last year,” he whispered.

“I love you too and even more next year,” she whispered back.