[Rust on White, by Bruce Gunion, 2009]

A splash of rust freckled her long waves of hair. Or maybe that was just the sun winking down at him, reminding of the deep red curls she once wore. Her talc white skin was not smooth, as it had been. Time had blanched her features with the same slow bleed that stole the flash of life from her hair. Only the tight curls and ringlets remained, a memory of vitality now lost within the maze of white and shadow.

She reached her hand out to his: one pattern of wrinkles searching another, crevices and grooves finding comfort as they eased into their familiar hold. He wondered how much of himself remained within her eyes. How much of the man she married was still there to study, and how much needed to be painted in with watercolor from the past. Once upon a time their eyes had been quite different. His an earthen brown, hers a flickering green. Somewhere along the laughing, crying, wonderfully awful march together they’d met at the same worn shade of grey.

It was a good place to meet, he decided. Like a Sunday afternoon spent reading together, or the warm mound of one body they created when making old love new again. A place of life wholly lived and love well used. It was their home, more so than any construct of mailing address or mortar foundation. It was a singularity that only existed between them. The sort of place that took both their looks to see: if either were to ever glance away, it would all just cease to be.

He seized his guts then and coughed out as much of the pain as he could. Through grunting tears he remained focused only on his wife.

“It will be alright,” he lied to her.
“I know it will,” and she really did.