Still Waters

Excuse me as I do a silly, happy little dance to the words: I’m early, I’m early, I’m early . . . πŸ˜‰

Yes, it’s not the deadline and I have actually got my story for Friday Fictioneers done. Yahooooo! Many thanks to Rochelle.

PHOTO PROMPT Β© Roger Bultot

Still Waters

While Aunt Jo was a hurricane traversing seas, visiting countries, leaving chaos in her wake, Uncle Jim was a banal sunny day. She grew angry with him for watching life pass by.

And then he died.

Certainly, she was upset, but she was madder that β€œhe never lived.”

That Sunday as I helped organize his office, I discovered hundreds of handwritten poems exploring nature, people, behavior. Each portrayed the depth of this man we never knew.

My beloved bemoans my boring ways
blind to the lives I live vicariously
while she scales mountains
I absorb the philosophy of pilgrims

end

17 replies »

  1. i suppose he had lived his life the way he wanted to. “blessed is he who has found his work,” as carlyle said, “let him ask no other blessedness.”

  2. Shakespeare said, “to each their own.” Who are we to take that from someone or try to make them feel less for it. He owed them no explanation, and his words are his testament to it.

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