The Airing

He is lean and he is tall but
stooped only when he leans to
help her, his grey head inclining
toward her own, a padded fairy
godmother figure pushing a walker
with less than authority along the
snow-crusted street. Her rapt
mesmerized fascination with
all she sees, the sky, the clouds
birds and trees prods her to emit
little shrieks of childlike joy
pleasing to her patient, uxorious
husband in whose mind's memory
flashes the lively spark of impish
gaiety the girl she once was
teased him with. They have since
lived their heaven-sent lives
over more years than he can 
recall. Now, whatever the season
their daily promenades halfway
up the street, halfway down
her chirping greetings to 
whomever they see, comprises
the very last chapter in her own
fading memory and consciousness.