Why I love My Job

Another new, old man.
New, old friend.
His white thinning hair hangs over his ears,
I clean him up.
I kid him that he cleans up real nice.
His eyes are turquoise gates
to a time well before I was born.
He talks about his son, his wife and the current temperatures.
He is my new friend.
As he is leaving he pauses.
"Can I show you a picture?" he asks.
I expect a picture of his son, his wife, himself perhaps when he was a young man.
He shuffles through a stack of well worn photos pulled from his wallet.
"It must be here somewhere, I always carry it with me, always. Oh, here."
He hands me a sepia toned photograph. It's a handsome young soldier and woman, standing in a field. She is dark haired and beautiful, well dressed in a pencil skirt and coat.
From the hair and clothing style and the faded light, the time period becomes apparent. This is a photo from the thirties, World War Two.
"This woman saved my life." he said.
"She hid us in the sewer on her farm for two years. In Italy, during the war."
He was a recognisance soldier he had told me earlier, he would stake out the enemy and report back.Us was Billy and another soldier friend.
"Did you marry her?" I asked.
"No, it was not like that."
He gazed at her picture in a moment of reverie.
"Did you keep in touch with her?"
"Oh yes, forever. She saved my life."