She sat before
me, wrinkled, grey,
a tear upon here cheek.
Her head was bowed, her eyes cast down,
she could barely speak.
Her husband of half a
century
had taken glory’s path,
now all she had were memories
and one tattered photograph.
She looked up with
beggar’s eyes,
and asked so tenderly,
Can you repair this photograph?
It means the world to me.
For fifty years I felt
his touch
now death’s torn us apart.
This photograph is all I have
to ease the aching in my heart.
I fixed the cracks
across his face
and brightened up his eye,
and when she saw the photograph
she could only cry.
How much? She sobbed,
it matters not
…I’ll pay any fee.
I said, I only want a smile,
that’s good enough for me.
She squeezed my hand
and paid her bill,
and in a solemn tone
she said, my husband’s picture
is the dearest thing I own.
The months slipped by
so swiftly
…I saw her now and then,
and every time she took my hand
and paid her bill again.
Then one day she
passed away,
and I went to say goodbye,
but when I saw her lying there
I couldn’t help but cry.
A gentle smile adorned
her lips,
but on her lifeless breast
they had placed that precious photograph
… it was her request.
Stocks and bonds and
diamond rings
she left to fade away.
She only took the dearest thing
on this final day.
Yes, she took that
portrait with her
into eternity,
and with that special photograph
went a tiny part of me.
And each of us must
ne’er forget,
who share this precious craft,
that
