The young man walks slowly down the familiar street, past the habitual haunts, towards the erstwhile frequent destination. The steps are all familiar, the ambient cacophony resonating with the echoes of a thousand similar days, the mingled scents a facsimile of olfactory delights oft encountered. But today, the familiar trip is different. Today, the trip has the somber shadow of difference...of shattered sameness.
As he approaches the steps leading up to the usual front door, the new adornment sharpens into a glaring relief the difference of this day. A simple length of cloth, unassuming and unimportant in any other configuration; even in this arrangement, festive in the colors of autumn and winter. This unassuming cloth, this assemblage of thread, weaving, and dye, stark in the color of mourning wrapped around the wreath on the door, welcomes the young man to a changed world.
The foyer, a site of a million warm welcomes and heartfelt greetings, the memory of each a precious treasure now, welcomes the latest visitor to this day's gathering with a silent dignity, a silence no doubt given in tribute to the warmth that still resonates through this point of admittance. Pausing for a moment in the stillness, the young man's recollection a collage his own prior stops in this very space, before moving on to the main gathering.
A cornucopia of friends, loved ones, and ones who loved and treasured in reciprocity has gathered for this last labor of love, but the young man moves past them all, and into the Sanctus Sanctorum through the door that has both imprisoned and provided refuge.
The soft lamp is already spreading its warm glow through the messy room...the young man is not the first today to have sought a small reconnection with the room's departed tenant, prisoner, refugee, and master. A slow perusal of the room reveals the comfort of things just as they are remembered, though unlike the other visitors, this one is not merely reflecting, but looking.
Finally spotting the object of his search nestled between two favorite and commensurately well-worn books, the young man pulls a crisp, clean envelope from the shelf, and sits with no small degree of reverence in the lone and now lonely chair.
The light of the lamp casts its warmth with enough strength to allow the wavering pen strokes of his departed friend's infirm hand. Three words grace the front of the envelope, one crossed out. The letter had originally been addressed, Dear Potter, but now read Dear Friend.
The young friend carefully opens the letter, and withdraws the short manuscript, sure to have been one of the final produced by that vaunted hand and beloved and respected mind.
Dear Friend,
As with many of my last missives, this letter had originally been intended for my Potter. But, with the time I have left, I am left to realize that whatever I may have to say to my Potter, I will soon be able to do so without the current indirect route. Instead, I believe it is an opportunity to leave a word or two behind for you that I must take full advantage of at the moment.
You know my life somewhat, though you know me well, my friend. You know my triumphs, and you have been acquainted with some of my failings. A history lesson or a long self-eulogy is not for these pages...
Rather, my friend, I have the opportunity to share with you some of my life stories, some of my fondest memories, and through these some of my most difficult lessons...
The strong, if sometimes slow and measured voice of his friend ringing strongly in his ears...the words on the page before him merely the final vehicle for those words to reach him, the young man reads on through the stories, recollections, and thoughts of his beloved friend. Laughter, sorrow, and a strange mix of the two pepper his experience of the next few pages, on through to the final anecdote, the final piece of advice,
...and so, my friend, I am left with little to tell you but to share some of the wisdom that my beloved Potter has allowed me to find after so many failures on my own.
Many times, I asked my Potter for the wisdom, the words, the strength to help those I loved, to help those who suffered so much, whose misery was overwhelming and crushing. Foolish is man to believe in his ability to be so wise and so strong. Remember this, my young friend, remember it and allow it to fill you with its simple truth: sometimes the true strength our Potter gives us is the ability to share in that pain, to drink from their cup of sorrow, to spill tears together, and have the eloquence to have nothing to say or add.
Silent tears whose comfort can outstrip any beautifully wise constructs generated from alphabets and spoken phonemes. There are many times, my dear friend, where we can do nothing more than offer ourselves to share in the sorrow.
Beg and implore the Potter to show you the wisdom to spot the difference between the need for eloquent words, and the need for eloquent silence.
More hearts have been brought closer to mending in my own life through this latter necessity, but do not be fooled by the apparent costs. Sharing in this pain, partaking in the tears, and yet standing strong with and for those you love can be, and usually will be, the most difficult task you set about to perform.
And now, my friend, the time has come for our mutual indulgence to end. I have enjoyed talking with you, for even as I slowly pen this, I can see your eyes scanning the pages before me and I share in the joy of having a young friend such as yourself to leave some of my final thoughts to. But my time to teach is now done, my time for stories is past, and your time to practice this most difficult art begins. You know those for whom I worry, those whose sorrows will accompany them today, and whose grief will be difficult to bear. I know it will be difficult, but I know you will have what it takes to persevere.
Go, and go with all my best love, gratitude, and hopes, my friend. Go, and help those left behind...
Once and always proud of you, my young friend,
The Old Fool
Reluctantly, the young man folds this last sheet of precious communication. Standing slowly, drinking in the strength left in this room by his friend, the young man braces himself, and in a faint echo of a thousand actions before this one, he opens the door, and crosses the threshold of this refuge to seek those in desperate need to share from their overflowing cups.
My friend, may I never forget how I am merely His clay either...and Dear Potter, I do beg and implore...give me the eloquence I need, and be my strength and my foundation, my anchor and my support. For alone, he could never, and him I'll never be.
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http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9d9BIvthwJM
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6KtF7ql3FJc
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xdQDYrOAht4
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZlhmigaacJc
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=erPnyi90cIc
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5srpggS-2-g
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The Old Fool
“If liberty means anything at all it means the right to tell people what they do not want to hear.” -George Orwell.
Blog - Musings of an Old Fool by Juan Lopez is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License.
Based on a work at lopezj4141.blogspot.com.
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