SLEEPING BEAUTY

Tall hedges surround the house.
The long grass has gone to seed.
Fading peonies hide among the weeds.
Only one wicker chair on the porch has a seat.
I knock on the door and wait.
No one answers though their car is in the drive.
I call Anthony on my cell.
“Cindy!  Where are you?”
“I’m on your porch.”
“I’ll be right out.”
Time passes.
I sit on the chair and look at the fields 
where sheep once roamed.
The chicken house too is still.
No chickens or peacocks strut its yard.
The air smells of country – grass, pines, sunshine.
Anthony opens the door, and we hug.
He is old, his curly hair gone grey and wild.  
His smile wide. Julie sits in the kitchen 
talking to herself.  She smiles when I say hello
not knowing me or why I’m here.
Anthony makes us coffee from Wards in Newark,
a joy we share.  He grew up there.
I’ve brought pignolis – cookies his mother 
used to make at Christmas.
We chat and drink our coffee.
Julie stands by back door and looks out - still talking.
She brings something in from the hall to
place by her parents’ photos, 
a shrine whose people she no longer knows.
Her eyes shine. She smiles.  
Before I leave, Anthony shows me his tomato garden.
It’s perfect.  Many plants. Orderly rows.
Fenced to avoid predators – his
escape from incontinence, locked cabinets 
the constant vigilance that protects his wife.
He is her husband,  
her jailor 
her Prince.