There is depth
and wisdom
and pain
and years
and kindness
and such
sadness
in his eyes.
And sometimes,
when he tries
to answer
your question,
his voice is tight,
and he looks
not at you,
but away.
Because
he remembers.
Because
he cannot
forget.
Because
it hurts
so much.
Scars
and open wounds
and salt
and flesh:
a godly toll
to pay
for godly crimes
miscommitted
and instant
accusations.
He looks
over the edge
of the pier,
and time
leaks from his eyes,
liquid,
and travels
down
his age-old face
and falls
into oblivion.
And the surface
is
as scarred
as he,
and it moves,
remembering,
reverberating,
ring upon ring,
to the edges
of the pond.
It reassembles,
repairs,
reconstructs,
and it's just
a little colder,
a little closer
to ice–
–to frozen.
And reflected
in the stillness
once again:
A creature
that is so
very
old
and so
very
kind.
Photo credit for the cover of this story goes to "Peter Adams Photography". Used without permission. Edited by me. No copyright infringement intended.
Thank you for your time.