Tarandian Mam
She sat there; eyes resting on him, their warmth a whisper from being a caress, the occasional frozen pane swirl of silver scattered through her hair evidencing the passing of time, her soft, clever words, spoken in a soft, clever voice, which, but for the silence of the morning air, would be lost to him. She sat there; sipping on coffee that flavoured the air with its distinctive aroma, but detracted not at all from her familiar, welcome scent, mingling as it did with the honeysuckle’s surrender to the day. She sat there; still lovely, still good to be with, still missed, happily still her.
