A brooding man stands on the overgrown front lawn.
His hands dwelling inside the pockets of a faded winter’s coat.
I ask him what business has brought him to a widow’s house in the
middle of the road. He acts strange while looking at me, but doesn’t
utter a word.
I should call the neighbor.. I don’t trust this bum….
You hear stories out there of those drifters in the run.
I’m the man and woman of this house, I fend for myself and
for my own.
I approach him, doubting my decision of helping someone who may
bring harm. He extends his right hand to me, and all I can see
are missing fingers; scars of frostbites of soldiers who fought
at war. Who is this poor man, and who is he looking for?
A white gold ring slips through his fingers, and I suddenly
recognize this living ghost.
Is the father of my children, who I believed was gone.
He finally mutters… Helen, yes , it’s me.. I’m home.
I embrace this stranger who I used to know, his stubble beard
caressing my cheek, while touching my soul.
We both have changed, fine wrinkles now mark my eyes. He looks
mature, but yet with a boyhish charm. I’m determined to make up
for the time lost, and give love to this man.