Pretty

My mother-in-law,
Joyce Gillette

Red sweater for a blanket, the pillow slipped sometime in her sleep,
no longer cushioning her head but she looks comfortable enough
serenaded by worship in the air. One hand beneath the covers
of the bed beside her, contact kept with man she's lived with for so long. Breath shallow, systems slowing down but stubborn just like him, as she has been as well. Stubborn love through troubled times, support when others would have called it quits, a fierceness to her faith that hasn't needed ceremony to stay strong. Sixteen-year-old war bride, his choice because the morning he surprised her, she didn't need time to primp. Other reasons too, of course, sweet face and figure, willingness to work. In recent years, she's been his eyes and hands, while he has been her ears. Separation will be strange, challenge met with grace, as is her custom. Raising five, helping shape the lives of 13 grands, rocking so many greatgrandkids I've lost count. He called her Pretty, named his sailboat for her, cried to me once of his worry for her health. And now he'll leave her for the last time,
knowing she can stand alone, ready, really, to remember
what that's like again. Few couples can endure a decade,
much less, close to seven.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013