An old man’s tale

Dear G,

My hand quivers as I clutch the quill to pen these words that have been locked deep inside my heart. But I guess I can’t hold it down much longer for the dreadful tiger seeks to jump out of the cage that sealed its roaring and tearing viciousness.

It is not long since I looked at the stars. In fact it was the night that passed and the ones before. Seeking to find answers and asking the stars if they had seen your smile or shared with you the rumor of my arrival.

It is a crux feeling that I have in my heart. Knowing that the time we shared was but a pinch of the sands of time. We never got the opportunity to tickle each others feet, smile in the night light, share the pains when you hurt yourself, bump our heads in your teen age and share the vast knowledge as you meet your own offspring. How could the robber have come and snatched you while I lay awake? Or did you feel like crossing the streams much faster than I had anticipated and prepared you too. Why am I kidding myself? All that has just been playing in my head. Maybe I ought to take my prescription, these hallucinations seem to be getting the best of me.

But nonetheless, the struggle inwards is of my heart skipping and longing to hold in my arms. Forgive my foolishness, for I seem to be near sighted because my love for you is deathless. It seems to bind me with mighty cables that nothing but omnipotence can break.

My eyes fail me as I continue to jot down this soliloquy, the cloudiness in them seems not stop. We never expected her to be this strong but your frail mother still gazes through the window day in and out. Staring at the whistling grasslands as the pushing winds send them in a chorus sway. Her heart diminishes with longing as she earnestly desires to pat your soft and beautiful hair. Pondering at how big your feet would fit in her tender palms yet her resolve not to taint her memories of you stands strong, vehemently exercised in the way she goes about her daily chores. 

My love, life here seems to be on the fast track but I will leave you with the words of  Francis Thompson (1880) to muse over for when I think over them, they make my waning and fainting heart firm;

But (when so sad thou canst not sadder)
Cry—and upon thy so sore loss
Shall shine the traffic of Jacob’s ladder
Pitched betwixt Heaven and Charing Cross.

Yea, in the night, my Soul, my daughter,
Cry—clinging to Heaven by the hems;
And lo, Christ walking on the water,
Not of Genesareth, but Thames!

I hope that when we next meet, your embrace will rekindle the dying embers in my soul. As I travel the proverbial seven hills and rivers, my thoughts shall be of you and our blissful reunion. Do not lose patience as I tarry a little longer on this earth but for now keep your uncle Sam in check, make sure he does not bully the angels, for he loves to have a good laugh.

Much Love,

Your old man.

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