'Penny for your thoughts,' he says, face shadowed,
but I discern a glint.
The pomp faded some thirty years before, and now
he sits; legs covered with itchy crocheted patches - days spent counting
My mouth pulls towards my taut left cheek as I search-
for words. There are none, so my shoulders rise, and fall,
Gifted raconteur, he disturbs torpid air with sing-song tales of his
wife and an enchanting account of my childhood. A priceless treasure,
overlooked and nestled between the other discarded;
brittle with wisdom and accustom to the ephemeral acceptance
which is youth.
I'm still learning; apologetic that I didn't
graciously accept that penny when offered the chance.
I would be richer for it.
(c) Copyright Jane Edwards 2010