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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.
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