fifteen tons
I know a man who was tired. He lived his life in the service of others. Giving more and more and asking for so very little in return. In the end all he had was what he asked for, so very little. He lived on the west slopes of the peaks, in the range of constant mist, just between the Peaks and Valleys.
His only vice in the world was his pipe. He enjoyed his tobacco, it soothed him and comforted him and I would believe it was his only true friend. But even then, in the end it betrayed him as well. It’s the way of things I suppose.
He went to the doctors because it was getting harder and harder for him to trek up the slope and discovered he had contracted the Cough. It’s a slow death that comes from the pipe that takes your breath and slowly takes your body with it.
He couldn’t stand the news. His only true friend had killed him. He stumbled about for a short time, trying to figure out how it could be. Where had his life gone? How could a man live knowing when his life would end?
One day at the crack of dawn a single crack of thunder rolled through the Valley. No one took much notice to it. Then about mid-day the priest and some of his friends went to the mans house and they weren’t seen for two days, until the procession made its way through town.
It was on a rainy day in the middle of Early Year when this poor giving man was laid to rest. The streets seemed a little emptier and the mood of charity fell off a bit, like the heart of it was cut out. But no one really mourned his passing.
On Lords day in the Burning of Latter Year, I sat on a knoll overlooking the church nestled in a grove of orange maple. A strange, warm wind blew over my shoulder and I could have sworn I heard the voice of that man on the wind.
I had asked the question and heard it asked; how could someone kill themselves?
There are souls in life that are so worn thin, they simply can’t go on. They want to. They want to find the one thing that can mend them. Unfortunately in life there are so few among us who possess the will to see them and their silent cries go unnoticed.
There is only one hope. The hope that the shackles that tie them to this world can be broken and the answers to their prayers can be found at the father’s door. This does not make them bad people it only makes them a fountain of hope in a hopeless life.
In the season now called autumn, I set and listen to the wind in the trees create a pale imitation of the sea. The warm winds blow across my face as the sun tries hard to warm it in the chill of the day, and I mourn him and praise him.
You see I have the Cough now and I wrestle with his fears and doubts. I don’t think I have his strength and have condemned myself to a long losing struggle, but I will remember him.
I miss you very much dad. I hope to see you soon.