Lois Elaine Heckman

They hang
on opposite walls,
facing one another:
my mother in her yellow gown
and wide-brimmed hat
with its roses,
the gossamer flowing down
to drape shoulders and
the softness of her generosity;
my father in his fencing jacket,
white with brass buttons,
soldier straight,
one gloved hand clasping his épée,
while the other circles the
wire mesh of the mask.
His eyes look forward
and gaze into hers,
looking back,
interlacing emotions
of sixty years
still a force
dancing between them
through paint and space.
I imagine them at night,
whispering secrets and ideas,
lips curving into
their private harmony,
while we sleep and dream
and process the burdens
of the day, to wake into
the art of living.