"Ira had a gift for this," she offers as excuse
For how she vacillates, within paralysis,
Staring at the scarlet tweed, then favoring charcoal
Sprinkled with a dash of Chinese red.
She pages through the sample books, encouraging advice,
And I attempt to lend my expertise.
The furniture is fading as she clings to dreams of joy,
Hoped for through the magic touch of rejuvenation.
"He made the tough decisions" she explains as darkness
And rains enthusiasm from the chore.
"He chose these colors thirty years ago with confidence,
So I suppose we'll merely freshen up the look."
Frustration slowly dulls her sparkling eyes, exposing grief,
As I speculate on beauty lost to age,
Thinking Ira must have had a wife to make men jealous,
Abandoned now, beyond his guiding hand upon her
I see the moment she gives up, eyes glazed beneath the struggle,
As she reaches for his photograph, which frames
"Wonderful" is her desription, "He was just delicious,"
As tears which glisten smudge forgotten fabric.
I pack my books, another sale aborted by the past,
Sentimental by this bonding with a grieving woman,
Praying that my wife can cope if we are torn asunder,
And hoping she'll describe me as delicious.