That day, we worked together
in the hay fields, until lunch,
when you unharnessed Bessie
and let her graze by the wagon.

I spread out our meal on a cloth,
the bread with the sharp cheese,
the sausage, apples for dessert,
and red wine to quench our thirst.

When lunch was over, I packed up
and you removed your shoes, placing
them by the sickles.  I kept mine on as
we lay down to rest before resuming.

Smiling, I thought of our family.
The children were educated,
had married well, settled down,
and nurtured children of their own.

We needed little but each other.
The bountiful harvest was good
and would add to our security
as we relaxed in the warm sun.

You kissed my forehead, then lay back
and pulled your hat down over your eyes,
using your arms to lay on like a pillow.
I cuddled beside you, my head on your chest.

We had everything we needed,
I thought, to be happy in our old age.
Enough money saved.  Plenty to eat.
A lifetime of memories to ponder.

As I slowly fell into a deep sleep,
I didn’t hear the cancer growing,
giving you barely six months to live,
and leaving me only poems to write.