His footsteps are short --
I watch him walking along the streets
early every morning,
carrying his life in a cart.
He bears a grin on his bearded face,
a grin that seems to hold thoughts
of a very rich and happy past.
For some strange reason, he has dignity
that is not revealed by his dingy clothes
or city-street living;
he nods his head to all he meets.
I wonder were he came from,
where he is going with the cart,
as he scuffles his way
along the city streets.
With curiosity, one morning,
I follow this gentle and private
old man on his journey.
He enters a cemetery,
shuffling to a grave
that is well-groomed;
from his cart
he places a fresh flower
on the cold marble.
After a few minutes to meditate,
he stands and begins pushing
his cart out the gates.
Behind on the grave,
he leaves a note
with the fresh flower,
it reads:
My dear beloved wife of many years,
thank you for the love we shared,
thank you for making me
rich beyond belief.
You are no longer with me,
but because of your love
my heart is at peace.
I know when it is time,
in heaven again we shall meet.
Your loving husband, Sammie.
-- W. E. Gardner III
