|
|
The
views expressed
on this page are soley those of the author and do not
necessarily
represent the views of County News Online
|
 |
Simple Truths
To a Child, Love is
Spelled T-I-M-E
What a Child Really Needs
From You
In the faint light of the attic, an old man, tall and stooped, bent his
great frame and made his way to a stack of boxes that sat near one of
the little half-windows.
Brushing aside a wisp of cobwebs, he tilted the top box toward the
light and began to carefully lift out one old photograph album after
another.
Eyes once bright but now dim searched longingly for the source that had
drawn him here.
It began with the fond recollection of the love of his life, long gone,
and somewhere in these albums was a photo of her he hoped to
rediscover. Silent as a mouse, he patiently opened the long buried
treasures and soon was lost in a sea of memories. Although his world
had not stopped spinning when his wife left it, the past was more alive
in his heart than his present aloneness.
Setting aside one of the dusty albums, he pulled from the box what
appeared to be a journal from his grown son's childhood. He could not
recall ever having seen it before, or that his son had ever kept a
journal. Why did Elizabeth always save the children's old junk? he
wondered, shaking his white head.
Opening the yellowed pages, he glanced over a short reading, and his
lips curved in an unconscious smile. Even his eyes brightened as he
read the words that spoke clear and sweet to his soul. It was the voice
of the little boy who had grown up far too fast in this very house, and
whose voice had grown fainter and fainter over the years. In the utter
silence of the attic, the words of a guileless six-year-old worked
their magic and carried the old man back to a time almost totally
forgotten.
Entry after entry stirred a sentimental hunger in his heart like the
longing a gardener feels in the winter for the fragrance of spring
flowers. But it was accompanied by the painful memory that his son's
simple recollections of those days were far different from his own. But
how different?
Reminded that he had kept a daily journal of his business activities
over the years, he closed his son's journal and turned to leave, having
forgotten the cherished photo that originally triggered his search.
Hunched over to keep from bumping his head on the rafters, the old man
stepped to the wooden stairway and made his descent, then headed down a
carpeted stairway that led to the den.
Opening a glass cabinet door, he reached in and pulled out an old
business journal. Turning, he sat down at his desk and placed the two
journals beside each other. His was leather-bound and engraved neatly
with his name in gold, while his son's was tattered and the name
"Jimmy" had been nearly scuffed from its surface. He ran a long skinny
finger over the letters, as though he could restore what had been worn
away with time and use.
As he opened his journal, the old man's eyes fell upon an inscription
that stood out because it was so brief in comparison to other days. In
his own neat handwriting were these words:
Wasted the whole day fishing with Jimmy. Didn't catch a thing.
With a deep sigh and a shaking hand, he took Jimmy's journal and found
the boy's entry for the same day, June 4. Large scrawling letters,
pressed deeply into the paper, read:
Went fishing with my Dad. Best day of my life.
View online at Simple Truths
|
|
|
|
