In sickness and in health
In the warmth of a cafe,on a corner tablea powered wheel-chair out of everyone's way so as not to cause trouble,between the clink of chinaand the hub-bub of conversations,a sanctuary built for two.He does not look at the clocknor does he look at the doorhis world is the distancebetween the plate and her lips,a slow practiced handof control and patiencethe 'for better or for worse' lineset out before us in a special cup with a plastic straw - the 'in sickness or in health' linemeasured out in crumbs of cakeon the plate he holdsthe vows they spoke all those years ago - then just wordswords spoken in a room of flowers and joy,now it's his hand that holds the weight of the reality - the grit of the many years.The muscle required for the staying power,when it would have been easier to let gotheir love no longer a spark,more the metal grate that stays hot long after the flames have died.It is the quiet architecture,buttressed by the way he wipes her chin,by the way she looks at him - not with the fire of youthmore a profound,reliable light - he the lighthouse on a stormy headland as the outside world rushes to be the newest,to be the fastest,the loudest,it is not to be found here...in here is the 'for better or for worse' linein the warmth of this cafe,the 'in sickness and in health' lineon this corner tablea powered wheel-chair...out of everyone's way so as not to cause trouble,between the clink of chinaand the hub-bub of conversationsthe oldest truth we have inthat - we are at our most beautifulwhen we are supporting each othersupport against the gravity the world exertspulling us all downseeing something so intimate,so perfectcan really make you reflect, on your very own existence.