TendingToPreviousWrongs

Time really did go on. The exciting side of life never appealed to my greater senses. Perhaps growing up in a back country town with a population you could count with one hand had something to do with it. Leaving this town to achieve grander schemes never seized my mind for a day. Simplicity would be the word I would use to surmise my particular ambitions. For some reason the life of content has followed my every waking step. You would be correct to assume my life has been free of any disaster or tragedy. I don't think my poor soul could take anything more than spilled milk.  Alas, tragedy has yet to knock on my door. Since my graduation from the notorious High School of Forty-Two, I procured myself a job at the fairly new hardware store in town. Being in such a small town, I could roll over in my bed and find myself behind the register. A typical day would constitute the habitual opening of the store while the sun rose over the mountains. Customers were few and far between. But for some reason, which still escapes my understanding to this day, an old peculiar man would always visit at least three or four times a week to buy some nails and other odd things of sorts. Whenever I saw him twiddling his thumbs and sliding from aisle to aisle with the eyes of a two year old at a candy shop, my curiosity always stirred. Maybe he just had time to kill? After all, what else is there to do with time in this town but waste it? For myself, I tended to my books more than the register. It would usually take him a half hour till he finished his usual stroll through the aisles. He would then eventually find his way to my corner of the shop and begin idle chatter. On rare occasions, he would grace me with a story of when he was a ‘young’in’ akin to myself. His uncanny hunting trips, the boisterous tuba lessons, and his wild adventures through northern Asia; every story seemed to be better than the last. Thinking back on it, his stories would have probably been considered the highlights of my week. The exciting and unpredictable nature to his stories kept me entertained for hours. I thought of myself as more of a Listener than a Doer. After all, someone has to wait at home for these crazy characters. Who else would they tell their stories to? You would think living in a small town would mean you would know everyone and everything that happened, but not in my case.

***

It was just like any other Thursday before it. Another morning, another day to open the store. It was quiet, peaceful, and the sun was just peaking over those same mountains; it was normal. Except for the absence of that peculiar old man. It must have been at least two weeks since I last saw that smug grin. The air was still until she walked through the door. Her arms pushed against the light wooden door as her thin legs carried her inside. Her struggle prolonged to the point of causing me to put my book aside and proceed to assist her. She nodded and chuckled as she motioned me to back off. I cracked an awkward smile in hopes to hide my flushed cheeks. An hour passed while she roamed the store before she ended up in front of the register with nothing in hand. I proceeded to ask her if she needed help in finding anything. She chuckled again. She wanted to talk to me, apparently. I stood there in silence as she softly told me about her husband. Apparently, the peculiar man who came by three or four times a week was her husband. Was. He had passed two weeks ago. She found him in his old chair when she came home from grocery shopping two Wednesdays ago. I couldn't help but drop my stare to my shoes. Gone? Just when I was getting used to those twiddling thumbs and outrageous stories. His wife was so small, so old, yet she had this aura of peace and content I had yet to begin to acquire. She felt obligated to inform me of his departure. She just couldn't find the time and courage to visit me at the hardware store after the funeral. She said he never let a day go by without mentioning me. He would tell her about the hilarious stories he would tell me and how kind I was to hear an 'old snake rattle off.'  After a couple of hours of conversation and overtly long pauses, she slowly stood up, took a bow, and made her way out the door. Well, I would have lied if I said I wasn't sad. When all was said and done, I found myself buried in my book. Tears found their way in between the pages. Why did I feel such sorrow? Why was I moved to tears? I never found out why he came to the store to buy nails and other odd things of sorts. I never saw his wife again after that encounter, but what strikes me to my core to this very day is that I don't even remember their names. Time really does go on...

Fin.

In my previous post, I said that writing a story around a piece of music would end in failure. I was wrong. A song can inspire stories. As I listened to Clair de Lune, I couldn't help but write down this random story I thought up. No outlines, no criteria. Just pure inspiration from this song. This is the first time I have felt this way about a piece of music. The atmosphere it invokes...timeless. I suppose this is a prime example to the growth I am and still have yet to undergo. Musication is involved over one's entire life, not over four years.

Dear Readers, I bid you good April. May we meet again when the week of terror ends.