IT MAY BE LOVE
By: Angelica Hart and Zi
Excerpt from a manuscript in progress.
A misty mid-morning was gently touched by rain. The lick of the sun wanted to push the clouds apart, to spread them wide. A patter of drops could be heard splashing on the new green foliage of the maple trees.
Our Forever Rest cemetery was expecting a new guest. Herb Watkins. A good man. A father. A widower. A friend.
Eight cars were parked facing the same direction in a row on the narrow path. A small group of mourners were huddled beneath umbrellas flanking a coffin on one side. A minister stood facing them balancing his umbrella, reading from his vade mecum. It leather bound, worn by time was protected as if a sugar treasure from the rain.
The loved ones were silent. One female, his only daughter, was tearing. Frequently, wiping them from her face with a wad of tissue she had balled in her hand though not making a sound. She stood somewhat separate from the group. Wearing a dark blue pants suit and holding a blue umbrella. She was the only family he had and he hers.
The service for Herb Watkins was attended by a larger number of people then did Mr. Matters anticipate. He realized that in his private way Watkins had affected others. This was a refreshing act of support to his premise that Herb was a special man.
By many standards this would be considered a small gathering. But considering he had one living family member and by most standards he was a graybeard with few friends. An old-timer who stayed to himself. Old-fashioned. Set in is ways. A loner. Yet, he touched others in a human way.
Just prior to Mr. Matter’s eulogy he turned to his son and handed him the paper with a poem his son had written and asked, “Could you read this today for Mr. Watkins? I have realized that in some small way that you became the proxy grandson he had hoped to have. I know this is asking a lot of you but I know Herb would appreciate it. I believe that.”
Ronny took the paper, hesitated then responded, “I’ll do it.”
Ronny unfolded the paper his father had handed him, and looked at for a long twenty seconds. Raised his now reddening eyes to peer at the mourners and began, “I have titled this PROXY GRANDFATHERS IN PERPETUITY.
The nevers are far too many
Sad that is
Their scars time-lines of a hard life
Each worn with honor and respect
Time etched masterpieces
Speaking of wisdom
Each man’s skin was aged by time
I stand before men of advance age
Humble and proud
I, a young manRaw with possibilities
Humbled by all of their successes
And proud that they are my
Proxy grandfathers in perpetuity.”
He folded the paper, raised his eyes again and put the work into his coat pocket.
Ronny spoke, “Mr. Watkins was my friend. And I am lucky for that. Thank you all for letting me share my words.” Then he sat.
His father approached the podium and said with a quiver in his voice, “I have never been more proud as a father then I am today…”
The manuscript, IT MAY BE LOVE, is a romance of a young woman, Mr. Watkins’ daughter, who was looking for online love, and found mystery and danger.
We share this specific piece because it highlights our ample respect for the elderly and in light of one of our works in re-progress, a romantic thriller which has a backdrop of folks at an Assisted Living Facilities being in great peril… we felt it apt. Our minds were with those of advanced years. We adore the oldies.
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