Little more than some pages turned
in his book of his life….
Not much else to see there, really,
unless you look real hard.
He never really made it
to the life he really wanted,
and he would weave verbal patterns
for others to see and hear,
of things and places
that never existed,
but the words he handed out
made him feel better,
so that is how he was.
He never really intended to lie to folks;
he was just storyin’,
telling how it would be if he had his way.
But he never did have his way.
And that ate at him a lot.
Later in his life
I think he started believing
all the things he told folks…
he had a wonderful life,
collected rare books,
valuable glass,
had collections of importance to him,
but the shelves they were stored on
were only in his mind.
Then he started getting old,
and his body started to turn on him,
and he knew it was October,
or maybe even November,
and he was ashamed of all his stories,
so he drew back,
wouldn’t talk to anyone he had once known,
even when told that what he had said before…
none of that mattered at all,
he was still George,
still the man he always was,
and he was still loved.
He found that hard to understand,
though,
and stayed behind that damn wall he put up
to hide behind,
and I could not break through that wall.
I tried.
I really tried.

A day before he died,
I was able to get a messge to him,
and I think he finally heard it,
and he finally understood…
I pray so.
I didn’t care about the past,
or what he had done or said,—
that was in the past,
and better there than in our hearts.
He heard from an angel
that I loved him,
that I understood,
and I cared.
I pray that gave him some comfort.
God knows he needed some comfort.

“Requiescerem frater, intellexi amarentur, et tamen non amari.”

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