Sifting through the items at my fingertips I waltz over to the cashier to pay for my item which has now faded in my memory.

In contrary I remember with acute clarity, the greying hairs, sticking out softly against his head, from which I could fathom his story.

The creases in his forehead painted the picture of him working against the harsh words of the sun on sky so blue,

And hands that lifted weight incomparable to his frail structure, weighing down on him like his responsibilities, to feed the mouths; more than two,

His wrinkled skin, portrayed the toils of his life which is his sole trunk of wisdom, for he has to spare experiences one, more than many;

I see his weak hands pull out a wallet, worn out at the edges, and pull out a crisp note in contrast to his wrinkled hand holding the hard earned money.

And as I watched him hold on to that note of green, smoothing out the edges, I felt a pang of sympathy for the poor old man.

Standing behind him on the counter I could see into his life, far away from his family, alone in a new world, for the survival of his clan.

As I glance away, I sight a vintage photo of lady in green, with edges browned over the years, his woman I presumed, his wife.

Waiting for her love to return, separated by miles of land and sea, to watch that twinkling eyes which now lay among creased eyelids, she spent her life.

And as he walked away slowly, holding onto his shopping bag, and happiness in his heart, for the bag contained goodies for his children,

He wondered on how much they must have grown and changed and hoped with all his heart, they remembered him, for now his sons must have become men.

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