During Truman’s time,

the two were neighbors in their cribs.

Later, they danced together, topless at twenty,

on the muddy fields of Woodstock.

One married once and stayed that way.

The other…well, she had three.

They and their children and their children

came for Christmas and vacations

and there was laughter and some tears to smile through

along their way.

Then they stood together, holding hands,

holding the other to see

two husbands coffins lowered into graves,

one vitrolic court-room battle with the third

and one’s urn-full of ashes tossed into the sea.

To party their 70’s in,

they cruised the Seine to Paris

where the one who’d had three

met a wealthy widower from Italy.

He’d said he’d been alone enough to need another.

(For woman grieve but men replace)

So it was no surprise one night

when she’d not come back to their cabin.

The one alone curled comfortably in her bed.

She missed the others story of the night

but supposed she’d be alright,

turned out the light and slept.

‘Till the other returned, much earlier than expected,

came in, stood between their beds.

Stood there in her night gown,

stood and thought

and thought again.

And sat upon the others bed,

touched the others hand….

The other woke and asked the obligatory question,

“Home so soon?”

Then she saw the others eyes and said,

“No, huh?…”

Slowly, like a question, the other answered,

“He wasn’t …you.”

The other sighed a sigh a half a century long,

tossed her covers off and waited.

The other slipped in beside her,

at last.

There they lay, one smiling to the other.

They held each others hands

and stayed that way for the rest of their journeys.

As,

perhaps,

it might have always been.