Now the children are scattered, on weekends they call
While memories gather on frames on the wall
It's not age that startled him, chilling his bones
But that he's completing the journey alone.

He tells me he's fine when I call on the phone
That he's been to a play and played cards down the road
But I know that every day round about noon
He's walked to her grave and told her the same news.

His house stands guardian over the past
Each portrait and pillow where she placed it last
Three years now we've urged him to move on
But it's there he finds shelter from the pain that she's gone

I ache to protect him from life's last cruel turn
I wrestle with fate's great lack of concern
For this sweet man's devotion to his dearest friend
And his bittersweet longing that but fate will end

words and music © 1986 by Deborah Silverstein