She sat before me, wrinkled, grey,
a tear upon here cheek.
Her head was bowed, her eyes cast down,
she could barely speak.
Her husband of half a century
had taken glory’s path,
now all she had were memories
and one tattered photograph.
She looked up with beggar’s eyes,
and asked so tenderly,
Can you repair this photograph?
It means the world to me.
For fifty years I felt his touch
now death’s torn us apart.
This photograph is all I have
to ease the aching in my heart.
I fixed the cracks across his face
and brightened up his eye,
and when she saw the photograph
she could only cry.
How much? She sobbed, it matters not
…I’ll pay any fee.
I said, I only want a smile,
that’s good enough for me.
She squeezed my hand and paid her bill,
and in a solemn tone
she said, my husband’s picture
is the dearest thing I own.
The months slipped by so swiftly
…I saw her now and then,
and every time she took my hand
and paid her bill again.
Then one day she passed away,
and I went to say goodbye,
but when I saw her lying there
I couldn’t help but cry.
A gentle smile adorned her lips,
but on her lifeless breast
they had placed that precious photograph
… it was her request.
Stocks and bonds and diamond rings
she left to fade away.
She only took the dearest thing
on this final day.
Yes, she took that portrait with her
and with that special photograph
went a tiny part of me.
And each of us must ne’er forget,
who share this precious craft,
that wondrous thread of golden love
we weave into each photograph.
Reprinted with permission
Copyright ã 1983, Marty Richart