The old couple holding hands walking down the street.
They looked at me, I at them.
What did they see in me? Younger version of themselves? Old man looks at my life? I am a lot more like you? Should it be the other way around?
What did I see in them? Grey and withered, still attached, like glue?
I thought hand-holding was for lovers, young lovers.
Like Virginia‘s motto “Virginia is for lovers”.
Here in Saigon, old couples still hold hands, walking down the street.
It gives me hope, the public display of affection part.
It is affirming, affectionate the whole way through.
Leo Buscaglia once extolled the virtue of Love.
We have Dr Love and Dr Death (assisted suicide).
Both sides of the same coin.
Then we got Dr Strange Love, about bombing and mutual destruction.
The ultimate scare!
Humanity courting disaster.
He who has the bomb holds the key to life.
Archeological dig found a grave with two people holding each other in life and in death (earthquake victims?).
What motivated them? That force which we all felt at times, and recognized when seeing it.
In business, we shake hands upon conclusion of a deal.
In love, we hold hands walking down the street.
Any place (Valentine in the park).
Old man looks at my life, I am a lot like you.
I need someone to see me the whole way through.
I held my dad’s hand on his death-bed.
I saw him struggle with those last attempts at life.
One more try, one more beat. One more refrain, then fade out.
Rather try and fail, then never at all.
Old man looks at my life.
My turn to look at younger men. I am a lot like you.