Buxom bright and beautiful, was the girl I got to know,

When I returned to Civvy Street, more than fifty years ago.

She was full of life, and her life was full, to the very brim,

Unlike some whos only thoughts, were of dieting to slim.

She could knit and sew and crochet, and loved to drive a car,

Never bored or discontented, as so many young folk are.

All week she worked both hard and long with a smile for everyone

Her Saturday nights were set aside, for several hours of fun


Each week would find her at a dance, radiant looking grand,

Not on the floor, up on the stage, making music in the band.

Of all her many talents, the one she loved the best,

Was playing her accordion, up there with the rest.

I used to proudly go and watch her, and listen to her play,

Every weekend without fail, until our wedding day.

Just over one year later, our longed for baby girl arrived.

The though she had to leave the band, love of music still survived.

In over two score years that followed, she was the perfect wife,

While bringing up our children, she made the most of life.

Times were hard, she did her share, and I would say much more,

Altering clothes, and making dresses, to keep wolves from our door.

As well as showing and breeding dogs, she increased skills.

Learning how to sketch and paint, no need for sleeping pills.

She was on the go from morn till night, never idly sitting.

If she stopped to watch the "telly", she always kept on knitting.

She made all our children's clothes, and some for kith and kin

Pets or friends in need of help, shed always take them in.

She gave a home, to an old friend, we for years had known,

Who, when his widowed mother died, could not face life alone

Then came the time she couldn't knit, or draw nor play a tune,

But sat with blank expression, each night morning and noon.

Though for over forty years, wed been together every day,

She did not know her own surname, or that my name was Ray

A victim of that dread disease, which we hear of every day

. Today it's called Alzheimer's, in the past, Senile Decay.

I tried to give her the support, that she had given me,

And found pleasure doing all I could, 'till she from pain was free.

Her talents, and her qualities combined, today it seems are rare,

I wish that she could once again, fill that empty chair.

Though she 's not here to give me, her love, care and support,

I get it from our grown-up children, she by her example taught.

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