She can’t see very well anymore.
He’s deaf.
It’s been fifteen years
since she poured her own cup of coffee:
her shaking hands and tired eyes make it hard.
He does it for her,
(two sugars, a bit of cream)
Unable to hear her sing while she makes it.

But her voice isn’t what it used to be.
It’s hard for the sound to travel up
her weakened bent back.
She smiles her thanks to him,
and points to the calendar.

Together, they work as one making the bed
every day.
Together they smooth the sheets,
every day.

Today, though, they leave the bed
rumpled and undone.

Today is October Fourth.
Today is different.

He carries the comforter
in a plastic basket with a broken handle
they got on sale at WalMart
eight or nine years ago
past their small ten-year-old Maytag
and out to their old car.
He goes…

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