Tuesday, September 26, 2006

TOMMY'S GRANDFATHER

Tommy drew close to his grandfather on the weathered boards of the pier. Cold fingers of the lake's mists sent shivers up the 10-year-old's spine. Patrick, noticing Tommy's discomfort, reached around the boy, enveloping him with the warmth of his strong arms. The lad smiled up at old man's face. He was too young to notice the touch of sadness that lined the old man's eyes.
It was a perfect morning. The mist and sky and land and water blended like an abstract watercolor. A chorus of peepers sang out to the dawn. The scent of wisteria from vines crawling along the fishing shack perfumed the air. Soon the sun would rise and write a poem full of color to the sky.
Patrick's soul had come alive again after years of tedious and mind numbing work. He had made so much money that he could give away half of it and still not be able to spend the rest. He was a well-respected business and community leader. None of this paid for the death of his soul. He looked deep into Tommy's eyes and saw his daughter. Why had he stayed away from Tommy so long? How could he rejoice in Tommy's new life when Annie's life bled away at the boy's birth. There sitting next to him was all the wonder that was Annie.
Tommy was a bright boy. He knew that his grandfather liked the early morning quiet. He held back his questions and his endless imaginative observations for later in the morning. Grandfather would tell him stories later. He was content to watch the sky reflected in the water
Patrick's thoughts were somber this morning. As he became older, thoughts of his end came more frequently. The death of his soul was something that troubled him greatly. He wasn't thinking about the soul in any religious sense. He went to Sunday service to maintain his standing in the community not because of religious belief. In fact, he deeply resented religions. Too much blood had been shed in the name of God. How could God, who is supposed to be all good and all powerful let the Arabs and the Jews spread their blood on land where God once walked? He was ashamed that the descendants of his ancestors fought each other as Protestant and Catholic. He didn't like thinking of scarlet soaked green hills.
"Baba look" Tommy could no longer continue in silence. He pointed to a school of tiny fish that swam close to the surface. Their movements were like a ballet. They moved to the rhythms of the water. Patrick's dark thoughts swam away as quickly as the fish. He was as happy to be around Tommy as the boy was to be around his "Baba." Through Tommy's eyes, Patrick looked around at the world as if it were new again; as if it were Eden and man had not sinned.
He listened to the "weeta-weta-weeteo" of the magnolia warblers who decorated the pine trees like yellow Christmas ornaments. Tommy was humming when all of a sudden, he stopped and stared at his Grandfather, his eyes wide and his mouth open like a fish gulping food. " The angel's are coming for you." A tear rolled off the boy's cheek. The casual observer might agree with Tommy. At that moment a bolt of sunlight rent the early morning clouds and illuminated the old man's fine white hair. He looked like a saint in a painting until he slumped over.
Before he could open his eyes and gauge where he was, he felt himself gently pushed as if by the breath of a girl's first: "I love you." He expected tubes in every orifice, glowing fingers checking his blood pressure, electronic monitors upon which the lines of many lives have gone flat. He didn't smell antiseptic cleanliness of a hospital. Strangely, he was not disoriented. He felt serene, at peace for the first time in many years.
He wondered if he was dead or was this an "out of body" experience that occurs before the grim reaper takes in his crop. When he did open his eyes, he couldn't tell if he was prone or upright. The first thing he saw was a stream of bubbles upon whose surface were beautiful pulsating patterns. He passed his hands through the surface and as he did, he heard wondrous tones, songs of dying sirens, whale sounds, and the tinkling laughter of children. Abruptly, all of the other sounds stopped and all he heard was the relentless beating of his heart. Louder and louder it beat. Faster and faster until finally in one gigantic whoosh, as if all the blood in his heart gushed out, all the bubbles flew away from him. To his left was single chair. It was an invitation. In the distance, he saw a line headed toward him. It was small and he didn't have a clue what it was. As it got nearer to him, he noticed that it consisted of words; each letter of which had a three dimensional form. They were his words: Words in big red jagged letters spoken in anger to his mother. Fat wet letters that were the lies spoken to excuse his laziness. Tall tales in white letters on a black background told to teachers as reasons why the assignment was not complete. Cube shaped cold letters reflecting his rise to the top of the corporate ladder. The letters came at him quicker and quicker. He felt trapped by the letters of his own words. He began to struggle for each breath. He felt his arms flailing away trying to rid himself of the morass of his own words sticking to his face.
Just as he felt himself lost in the quagmire, he heard the words: "I love you." All of his words fell away revealing the tear stained face of his grandson.
copyright (c) 1998 by Jack Berg

4 Comments:

Blogger Roberta said...

Jack,

This is so rich! It's sad, but triumphant. A real lesson.

What a great write!

7:04 AM  
Blogger anna said...

Oh Jack! how absolutely terrific is this story
loved this:
The mist and sky and land and water blended like an abstract watercolor
and what a picture this is:
He didn't like thinking of scarlet soaked green hills.

Just extraordinary writing Jack!

7:27 AM  
Blogger Unknown said...

Such vibrant, living images; such beautiful, passionate words. You presented what I see as the theme so wonderfully. A dying soul can always be saved when it opens itself up to love.

jas

11:22 AM  
Blogger Rich McDonough said...

Jack, I'm not very good when it comes to commenting on a writer's work. but you really write some fine stuff.

Rich
(friend and fan)

5:34 PM  

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