Blue veins run across eighty-two year old hands,
As they pass back red and blue angel-backed cards.
The portable light illuminates spades, diamonds,
While failing eyes gaze upon the clubs and hearts.
Her Italian charms spell out "Mom" and "Nonie".
The empty space where her wedding ring once was?
Hidden by two cheaper rings. No divorcee--
A widow, after a sixty-one year trust.
And yet she still smiles, which is better than most,
Yet indeed, the love in her eyes still glitters.
And yet she still laughs when I tell her a joke,
Humor is one thing that time couldn't wither.
She sits in her chair with her plain black coffee.
"Ishtoh!" she laughs in Italiano style.
Her chuckle bounces her hair--gray and wispy--
And though she loses the game she has to smile.
She has had her share of pain and misery
--After eighty-two years, who has been without?
She has gotten through tears, grief, and trickery,
And her laugh lines still flutter around her mouth
She is old and wrinkled, not graceful and young,
But in our eyes she has more beauty than not.
The only thing I inherited from her
Is the best thing she has, for I got her heart!