Whisper of cold enwrapped her; she was able to feel the cold up to her brittle bones.
“Where is my blanket?” She wondered.
She slipped her feet in the woolen slippers. Her knees invariably croaked in an effort to get up from the rocking chair. She rubbed her wrinkled hands for warmth but failing miserably. Her hair still long and in the wave of white, black wasn’t amiss.
He watched her from behind the kitchen counter. She was murmuring something to herself, but in the quiet of the house he heard it as a soft song playing just for him. Her tall slender figure in those famous blue silk was fumbling to find the blanket. She tripped over a chair and with agility unknown to an old man; he was there at an instant to hold her at that moment.
Her stricken wide brown eyes had the same spirit she had some twenty years ago. It is so strange that her eyes never looked old. Her fragile body in his hand felt so perfect and her beauty could not have ripened any better with age. The most prized possession in his hand smiled. A smile he always fell in love, every time he saw.
In her soft voice, laughing she said, “You saved a visit to the doctor, Roy.”