The shiny buttercream sedan from the early 2000’s pulled up to the covered way, stops, and out comes a tall man with a head of gray hair, a drab brown and taupe with a burnt red striped through plaid shirt covering his severely hunched shoulders, brown slack pants belted, hanging on to life that is leaving him his skin tells. His legs labored as if the earth was pulling him to her, he made his way around the sedan, removed a wheelchair and creatively transfers his brides from the sedan to the chair and uses a forest green thread torn strip of fabric tided from one end of the chair to the other her arms hung over, holding up the half bent over old woman’s upper body. He places his own walker on the handles and pushes forward, slowly getting the job done.
He has to leave her in the lobby for his appointment to look deep into his tired casing.
Her feet in the black shoes that a grandma or nun would have worn in 1985 shuffled so she could direct motion and move on her own. She still had the mobility given limited instruments and mechanisms.
Ice blue eyes, sparse silver hair that once was probably a natural platinum blonde. Her legs dressed differently, one with a knee brace the other an ace bandage around her lower leg disappearing into loose socks semi grounding her black shoes. She was pretty in a pink t-shirt, even at 94.
She expertly spins the chair around and makes eye contact.
“You from here?” Life asked her wearing her crown of health that only the sick could see…
“Yes, about younder up the hill”
Life replies that she’s not from there but has roots, she’s up to the business of seasons.
The half folded over woman reflects that she and her groom never had children, they have a niece that never visits.
Seasons missing, lines ending.
Life watch as the old man approached his bride, his feet never seemingly leaving the ground, his helpful walker adding four more legs.
He grabbed on to the janitors cart …
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