Joseph and Maribel met, as they always did, under the elm her grandfather had planted. Wordlessly they linked arms and strolled down the promenade. Once upon a time there was a thrill and anticipation now it was habit; it was expected even anticipated by the regulars of the boardwalk.
Their walks started in the days of parasols and gas lamps, chaperones and carriage rides but times had changed and the slow easy feel of a Sunday afternoon has been lost. But still they stroll and the passers by smile and nod, a small piece of yesteryears acknowledged.
The day will come when one or the other is no longer able to make this walk, but until then Joseph and Maribel will find their way to the old elm and each others company.
- Susan L
- Portland, Oregon
- It is necessary to write, if the days are not to slip emptily by. How else, indeed, to clap the net over the butterfly of the moment? For the moment passes, it is forgotten; the mood is gone; life itself is gone. That is where the writer scores over his fellows: he catches the changes of his mind on the hop. ~Vita Sackville-West
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