Satin and Old Lace

Bent fingers trace embroidered leaves on satin and long lacy sleeves. Blush roses, twenty-six she counts-- A French word she can't now pronounce. She blows dust from old envelopes tied with blue ribbons and her hopes. The letters penned by her true mate. Over his name, she... hesitates. A trunk in attic soon became her refuge from days all the same. Photos dwelling midst her daydreams, and keepsakes of sweet seventeen. She thought he'd walk up Dusty Lane; he might appear, along with rain and wash away her endless tears; bring summer nights and happy years. A wedding date that came and passed; memories cut like broken glass. A heartache like the roaring wind, returning nightly without end. She lived alone among the ghosts of dances, laughter, champagne toasts. Altho eccentric, she was bright; looked forward to impending night. Aunt Agnes passed at ninety-three; still wore her ring for all to see. Memories left for wind to tend; they have beginnings but no end.