Whispers of Lace

Whispers of Lace Arms folded; He sits. A grandfather clock ticks it's way to a song, in a lonely room. It had taken ten years and thirty-five days to get to this place. He was here now, for better or worse. "For better or worse. " She had said those words to him a lifetime ago. He woke early one morning, to the song of a finch, the harsh cry of a crow. She never heard; she was already gone. She lay in her floral gown, ashen and cold. A traveling salesman by trade, a botanist by dream. Forgotten interstates and dirt roads, had been his companion. Flowers were his inner passion; his vocation took him to many. She always greeted him at the front door. He could still feel the wetness of her lips on his cheek; and the soft whispers in his ear. "I miss you." "I miss you too. " the words tumble silently from his tongue. A lonely tear falls, floating on the polished table. The grandfather clock sings. It is time. Men and women enter the room. They look at the old man, skeptics every last one. They sit on their chairs, a fragrance bottle in front of each judge. Corporate critics, responsible for seducing the world with scent. Grabbing their appointed bottles;He bows his head. Fragrance fills the room. Enchanting images of the old man flood their minds. What witches ' spell is this? Cherry blossoms in Savannah, cactus flowers from the desert, the elusive ghost orchid of the everglades. His image dances around petals. Some smile , some weep, others dream. Eyes closed, chin on chest, he thinks of her. Her maple coffin, casket open. Her formal gown, black, ebony lace collar. Fragrance in the air, and tears, bring her to life. “Tell us sir, what do you call this? " Raising his head, their faces all look with wonder. He can see the tears, He can see smiles on their lips. He can see her. Standing, he starts to leave, with a turn of his head, he utters. " Whispers of Lace " Kenneth Kerry.