Pant suit, skirt suit.

5 Apr

An elderly couple, dressed in cream: pant suit, skirt suit, shuffle painfully to their seats on this slow and dreary intercity train, matching silver hair, sunspots and smiles. To see them, to watch them talk, interact, be one together so completely, you’d believe it was a love of a lifetime. To look, who would, who could possibly know that she was beat by her first husband, that she lost her first child to his battering? Who would, who should know that he spent the first forty years of his life, being too afraid to actually go after what he wanted, not even knowing what that was, after spending thirty-five of those years being given orders. First from a cold and precise father, followed by a callous, calculating Lieutenant. A war on the frontline and back home – a wife lost to another man, one unfit to fight, who offered nothing to his country, nothing to the cause, but who was simply just there. Convenient.

To see them, this smartly suited pair, how could you know, that their redemption was each other. Displaced childhood sweethearts, she learnt to trust and believe again, he realised what it was he’d been fighting for all along. They hold hands, and spend their concern on one another, laughing in unison, both trying to hide the fear that lies within their eyes. A fear of the day when they will no longer be together, when one will be left behind, bereft of their soul and their purpose, their salvation. Each others saviour in lives that didn’t seem salvageable, reflected in the well worn wrinkles of their smiles, their hearts aching,  etched on to one anothers sleeve. To see them, is to cry. Doomed by time and inevitability, it is a tragedy.

They are so beautiful.

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