Old Friends

"Sixty years I've used this rake,” he said. Joints popped as he straightened his back to look at her.  She was balding just a little.  Pushing more leaves around, he continued, "Yep, we're old friends." 

The gardens would open soon and he would let her in like he did every day.  

"You told me that yesterday," she beamed, her skin wrinkling like crepe, “I remember!” Then a sudden doubt crept in, furrowing her brow. "Didn't you?" 

"Aye, that I did,” he said, watching as her smile returned.

There was a romance in repetition, he felt. Especially with her.