He Told Me One Last Story

547 WordsFeb 1, 20182 Pages
He told me one last story. He used his aged, ruined voice like an old man’s hands to pick the lock on his past. The old man had a fringe of snow white hair around his balding, spotted scalp. He had a wrinkled face and covered his slightly hunched back with a clean pressed suit that smelt like a Laundromat. With each movement there was the creak of old bones, as they struggled to keep from breaking. I leaned forward; watching and listening intently. I observed as he rubbed his prehistoric, frail hands together, and nervously played with his fourth finger as if he was twisting a non-existent ring, whilst concentrating on his thoughts. He spoke with much sorrow, and through his sun aged, cracked lips, I endured the pure emotion involved in his story. “We were only eighteen when we wedded. She was the love of my life. I still remember our wedding day like it was just yesterday. She stood there at the end of the isle, looking gorgeous as always. Her gentle, ivory shoulders were exposed through the lace of her wedding dress and her luscious strawberry blonde hair fell in perfect ringlets around her pale, yet flawless face.” Children of different ages ran around our park bench, playing chase. Families set up picnic rugs, while dogs exercised with Frisbees and balls. This park was a beloved and familiar place, with long rolls of purple carpet pathways from blooming jacaranda trees, wooden benches, and luscious green grass standing tall against the afternoon breeze. He continued

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