Dishes, pranks, childrearing, flower
planting, cotton picking, letter writing.
All done by one set of hands,
wrinkled now, unable to hold a
spade or even write a note without pain.
But one thing remains
faithful about her hands, the
irremovable ring of gold
fixed on her third finger.
It used to be thicker, her ring from 1940,
with details of leaves engraved
upon it. Those have long since
vanished, scrubbed away by a
washboard, by peeling apples,
by holding hands.
Her engravings of love are now her
memories of him,
walks down a dirt path, drives in his Chevy
car, a new kitchen dining room suit,
still prepared for supper.
Her ring, like her skin, has been worn thin.
But never her love.
Faithfulness like a deep spring
in the middle of a three month drought,
A woman of 96, who lost her husband
38 years ago,
yet continues to wear his love.