I
recall a time before this, when there was less blue on my
soul and
humor was plentiful, when I spent an
afternoon on a
windswept beach far from the smashing and thundering of the
big guns in the hills, where
Father said
good men were fighting a
good fight and I'd never have to worry about them
coming to take me away, for there was
solace to be had in
creation (this from him, a painterly man whose
landscapes sold poorly but who never felt more at ease than when his wrinkled
trousers were
stained with colored oils), there was solace to be had in
holding the hand of your father, there was quiet by the old
hearth his father had built, painting each
tile with scenes of
wild things roaming the skies, the fields, and the wood beyond our home.
Yes, I remember that time.