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This poem is an amalgam of a few people I was privileged to know during my formative years and just beyond. The hand in the photo — resting on oilcloth — belongs to a beloved friend (deceased), the last occupant of an old mill camp.

The Stone

What story in her face isn't being told?
Her mouth and all her lines suggest a smile,
but in her eyes lies a stone.

She pours us coffee 
and talks about her garden and the weather, 
her swollen hands play idly with the oilcloth on the table.
We share a laugh and enjoy the conversation,
the sunlight dances through the curtains on the window
that flutter in a breeze.
The clock ticks loudly on the wall beside us,
I close my eyes for a moment and she speaks my name.
I look into her face, her soft white hair falls around her cheeks,
but in her eyes lies a stone.


She holds an album, leather bound and worn along the edges. 
She leads me to the living room
and on a little couch we sit and lay the pages open.
Black and white photos of her childhood, softly yellowed,
lead us to a woman standing confidently,
she was a beauty, dressed in fashion of her time.
A gallery of people posed with her throughout her life,
famous names, exotic places fills the room as she speaks of them.
She turns a light on as the daylight dims.

She leaves me to sit as she prepares us supper.
A meal for two demands all of her attention -
a bowl of soup, a plate of sandwiches,
we eat in silence and then she clears the dishes.
She fumbles with the wrap on a tray of store bought cookies,
we dip them in our tea and she begins  to talk again.

She says, "I've lived a life of travel and adventure,
I've never married nor had a child. 
There was a man once, my father didn't like him,
he went to war and he never came home.
He was handsome and he promised me a life of happiness,
we'd raise a family and sit in rocking chairs still holding hands."

I listen as the hours pass and, when I yawn,
she hands me my coat and disappears into a room.
She carries out a box tied with twine and says,
"These are letters I'd like you to read and keep them for your own 
       ... I never thought that I'd grow old alone."

We hug and promise for another day 
and when we wave goodbye I see that she is crying,
in her tears falls a stone.

P Lindsay