He walks alone, but he is not. Her hand still holds his; at least, he sees it that way. They laugh and walk through an autumn meadow where the colors take your breath away, as does her beauty. At least, he sees it that way. He talks out loud at times, not caring who may hear. After all, he spoke to her every day for sixty-seven years. Why stop now, or at least that's how he sees it? His daughter looks out the window and watches him slowly walk down the dirt road, waving his arms and laughing, sometimes stopping to make a point about one thing or another. He seems happy for those moments he has with her mom, and why should she or anybody take even a second away from him? At least, that's how she sees it.
MO
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