I. Fear Itself
Walking on tree trunks, pounding the wooden walkway until it shrieks, a pair of senior ladies discuss ways to improve
their health, where to buy a good tomato and evening dinner plans. Behind them, walking on sticks, two men, slim with cardiac concern, worry about taxes and the hurricane season and
argue about which liquid establishment makes the best dirty
martini.
A bit farther back, an elderly couple turtles along helping
each other, old bones groaning, take one sad step at a time while planning still another European trip and believing they will not pass from this orb with plans made and the trip not
taken.
Ahead on a bench, pocket full of bottled pills, soft
cervical-collared-me watches the parade of fears and denials snake through the morning on the wooden walkway. I greet them with empathic smiles and waves knowing I but see myself.
II. James and Jude*
James and Jude, sadly gone of a sudden Sunday.
Crash. A lovely leaving as one, father and son.
Still, in this world of raging roulette we who
remain ever long for their ghosts.
Ah, but Heaven shall wipe away all tears when we
meet again, soul to soul, somewhere
somewhere out there in Rumi’s field.
III. Bench Talk
On
the bench where he had been sitting with the Live Oak late in the afternoon she
took a seat. He nodded kindly. She began to talk: of the exquisite texture of
the Magnolia blossom; of the Spanish Moss above their heads; of the lump in her
breast, the biopsy and the waiting for the doctor’s verdict; of She-Crab Soup
and her son’s close call at Virginia Tech where the mass killings had taken
place; of how lovely the sun felt on her skin this day; of two marriages, now
history, and her fear of another relationship.
With
soft, soft eyes he answered each pain and with twinkling eyes each veneer of
pleasure. She continued to speak going backwards in her memory: her first love,
who loved her not; an unexpected pregnancy and how she disposed of it. To their
left a Snowy Egret landed to fish at the edge of the lagoon. She pointed and
commented on its white perfection. He nodded kindly. The Egret swallowed and
she did likewise as she told of her daughter’s passing from a brain tumor
before her twentieth year. Again he smiled kindly and knowingly. There were
other things to tell and she told them, her story punctuated by the singing of
birds, the wind in the trees, his smile and the ever-so-gentle nodding of his
head.
When
she had told it all she took a very deep breath and, for the first time, looked
him straight in the eye. “It's been a long, long, hot summer”, she sighed.
“Yes”, he smiled. And now, her burdens reduced at last, she thought as she
left: “that man is a brilliant conversationalist.”
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Download Three Pieces by Frank Cavano
Author Bio: Frank Cavano is a retired psychiatrist who writes because
it is an enjoyable experience and, often, a healing one as well. His poems and
other writings are often of a spiritual/inspirational/metaphysical nature. He
tries to be a faithful, empathic observer of the human condition in all his
efforts. Email.
* James was my wife's nephew and Jude his son. They
went out for ice cream on a Sunday about three years ago and were killed in an
automobile accident. Imagine.