Serenade

With weak, rheumatic hands, I picked up my ukulele. My old, wrinkled fingers brushed against the worn-out strings and in a shaky voice, I started to sing. I croaked out the words of a song I could not remember for the life me, but as the words fell out of tune from my chapped lips, I could taste the moment I first sang this to her, dancing at the tip of my tongue. A small, peaceful smile danced across her lips as she closed her eyes . My broken lyrics were the last things she heard before the line went flat.