His wife is one of the nicest people I’ve ever met. His daughter chats with me as I wait for my friend. The tiny dog crawls on me, wagging his stubby tail. Eventually my friend’s son arrives. They all talk about the book I brought. They liked the last one I had written.
After some minutes I am admitted to the back bedroom and greeted by my old friend. I’ve known him for slightly more than half of my life, but he is no longer the powerful and robust figure I worked with so long ago. His face is grey, like the ashes of a cooking fire. He is much thinner than I remember.
The pain medication and perhaps his condition has him on the verge of this world and another. As we talk, I see the image of my old friend and I am reassured that he is still here. Amidst the yellowed toxins that have built up I see that old mischievous smile. But the bellowing, drill sergeant voice of the past is buried beneath the blanket that covers him.
Finally the pain pills have clouded his mind, but not enough to keep him from asking me to mention him when I talk to “the man upstairs.” This request I granted as I drove across the darkened landscape. We cannot live forever, but when the body fails before we expect it to, the result leads to these thoughts I have; that reflect against the cloudy sky.
—Kevin J. Curtis —4/19/2011
No comments:
Post a Comment