I was walking in the park when an old man with a baseball cap approached me. Wanted to know if there was more to see of the battle than just what was here. There was. And I explained at length what to see and how to get there. He thanked me as he and his son walked away. And for one brief moment, I felt useful.I watched the two of them walk away, together, two generations and that thought, that there was another not present, a woman, wife and mother and I wondered if she still lived, if she had travelled too to this sacred place. I could see in his eyes a lifetime lived, joy and sorrow, of twilight coming and some need, to see, to pay homage, to walk with another, together, father and son. I turned away and as water over a cliff, fell, fell forth in tear, of what never was, of a longing that could never be. I still remember that turn, slow motion in my mind and the old man, walking with a limp, lost in a sea of brothers from another time, yet brothers all the same and I wanted to yell, just what, I couldn't say. Instead, as before, I fell into silence and I walked my way, alone.
5 comments:
Bless your precious heart, this is so very moving. Truly exquisite presentation, movement and timing, arrangement and above all sentiment, to comment upon such an impressive, affecting piece of writing feels inappropriate, instead only the desire to remain within, to keep it closer than to begin the sequential, formulated, reflection would allow. There will be a before and an after for anyone who reads this composition. Deepening. Swelling.
Each day you re-define the meaning of limitlessness.
Sweetest, the first paragraph is a cheat, which is to say, it is pure autobiography. The second is, well, invention. I still wonder if this chapter would not have been stronger with just the first and not the second; then again, I'm biased. The first, for me, is real. I lived the scene exactly as written and I can see the old man as clearly as if I had known him all my life. The second is fictional creation, a step removed.
As always, thanks for the kindness. :-)
It's clear, whether birthed of memory, or absolute creation, you are living through your every word. One step removed from a reality doesn't necessarily make it any less alive. Your gift, is that your reader cannot, can never, discern the difference.
S, I would sprinkle your bed with lavender and lay you upon it for that comment. And then I would tell you this:
She moves at the speed of parchment; you must read her this way, write her this way; as if every letter were life or death, quill upright, forthwith, but above all, with passion. Do this. Let life bleed from your nib. Leave no doubt, for the days are numbered.
And I would tell you this:
What matters most, is the method used to number them...
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