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They sat together
Before the fire.
He packed his pipe,
Lit it with a coal
Carried carefully
with a small pair of tongs
To the fragrant
Strands.

She turned her knitting,
Another sweater
For the grandchild
Now in college,
Counted thoughtfully,
And cast on another stitch.

"Might snow tonight,"
He said.
"Might," she agreed,
Knitting away with vigor.
He puffed on his briar,
Then casting an eye
On his bride of forty years,
He blew a smoke ring.
Checking once again,
to be sure that
She was watching,
He blew another
Threading it perfectly
Through the first.

She pretended not to notice,
But he could see the thread
Of a reluctant smile
Curling around the corner of her mouth.
Her knitting slowed,
Then was set aside.
"I remember when ya first did that,"
She said, gazing into the embers.
"Just like Mr. Clemen's Tom,
Always showing off."
He grinned, just as he had
That first time-
And puffed again.

But he had let the pipe
Grow cold, and it no longer drew,
So he knocked it out
Against the inner wall
Of the fireplace.
Scraped it out,
With the habitual neatness
Born of fifty years of practice.
He slipped his hand beneath one of hers.
"Are you still my Becky?"
Her slender fingers, now knobbed
And gnarled with arthritis
Closed upon his.
"Always, my Tom, Always."

Learn more about this author, Daisy Peasblossom.
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