She was elderly, greyed with wisdom,
silvered with life experiences.
He, on the other hand, was a young tumbling lad. A timid little sapling, still moist with morning’s fresh dew. She was watered by his youth, the endless spring in his step. A stroke, long hidden in her past, had robbed her speechless. She was unable to engage others in the spoken word. It did its damage to her soul, but left it’s indelible mark upon her body, permanently. But undeterred, she still spoke through the heart, the silent beauty of the body’s language. And she was glad to be heard. She could understand me, but I on the other hand, had to learn her world. The words embedded in her countenance, the motions of wandering hand, and her ever brightening smile. She had spoken volumes through painting eyes, and accompanying brow. I understood her body’s language and she wondered how. Together we laughed and laughed. Enjoying as friends, one another’s words. Compiling a wonderful history, and wrote a best seller.
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