Do not, ever, underestimate
the values lifestyles of the
comfortable elderly; more than
capable with years of experience
behind them, of exercising the
wisdom of those years. They
do not lack for entertainment,
avidly looking toward the week-end
offering of advertisement flyers.
At the breakfast table, the
house-delivered adverts that
deluge society are sorted, compared,
prices checked and re-checked,
special sales with enticing nuances
carefully noted; those flyers
representing keepers, set aside.
The creaky old bones settle nicely
within the family-sized van, deemed
by the wizened owners adequate for
their needs, and off they go, one driving,
the other persistently navigating, to
visit the shops on the route carefully
mapped to acquire their bargains.
All the leaves have fallen, shrivelled
and rusted, from the Ash and the
Hawthorns. Those still in plentiful
numbers turning blush rose, orange
and gold are the Poplars, Maples and
Birch, creating confetti-like confections
on the undergrowth-barren floor of the
forest. Drought has spawned fewer fungi
and as autumn made its darker, cooler
entrance, the forest flora discreetly
made their season's exit. Leaving in their
wake that sere aspect, awaiting the
sleeping blanket of winter's snows.
Life has conspired against you
insofar as your personality
appears to have been preformed,
a gift to you from some chronically
unpleasant ancestor. Fortune,
however, may not be predetermined
as we are all invested with free will
and you have also been gifted with
intelligence of a sterling quality;
yet another genetic inheritance.
Those who know from experience
caution that honey attracts more
flies than does vinegar. It is never
too late to indulge in soulful introspection
to recognize that you have been remiss
in overlooking a basic requirement
of a pleasant character to attract
toward you those who have responded
to your bitterness by avoidance.
Only you can breach the gulf
between loneliness and the comfort
of friends. Family forgive where others
may not, but even they recoil in distress
before unexpected, episodic attacks
of rancid disdain expressed at times
of emotional strain. Much can be
overlooked when the balance
of moderation has its presence.
Like a rural-dwelling child
waking into the darkness of
a still night, observing light
creeping into his bedroom,
throwing off his covers to
approach the window and,
chin resting on the sill,
presses forehead against the
pane to observe the random
lighted objects in the sky
with rapt attention at their
starry blinks and nods, I too
press my forehead, rest my
chin as instructed, like an
obedient child absent the
quest and curiosity, to witness
random flicks of light pass
before my afflicted vision,
and register their passing
presence albeit in a doctor's
office, testing my vision's
acuity, failing the test.
Listen now, gentle suffering soul,
listen to me carefully. At risk
of offending, you leave me little
choice but to instruct you in the
niceties of sufferance convention.
I lay no claim to wisdom; I may
perhaps have experience where
you have not. Certainly my years
exceed yours, for what that may
signify: little or perhaps much.
You may feel it personally needful
to mournfully, remorselessly
regale others with your sadly wistful
countenance as a bid for soothing
compassion. If so, leave it at that.
Do not, my friend, continue to
complacently burden us with both
it and the tenderly related minutiae
of your miserable existence.
For here, my erstwhile friend, is
a truth: we all have our own sad and
weary burdens in life. We, all of us,
suffer in our own way for our very own
singular and painful reasons. Kindly,
therefore do not continue to prevail
upon others to pity you. Friend, do not
take a casual concerned query as license
to lacerate the hapless listener with
your all-subsuming tales of woe.
Backpack straining under the weight
of forest litter from other people's
careless disposal, he strides easily
through the woods, a gentle giant
shod in 20-League boots, venturing
where most would never think to go,
eyes alert to the damning detritus
of a city population's endless waste.
His raspy voice booms as he greets
us, his huge form leaning against the
landscape. We speak of impending
fall, late by the calendar this year,
the incipient colour changes, shortened
days, and the oddness of the heated
humidity of this mid-September day.
His smiles, hearty guffaws, good
natured persona simply complement
his frequent forays to retrieve from a
burdened arras: armchairs, broken
bicycles, lawn ornaments, vehicle tires;
hoisting them and hauling them on his
back out of the precincts of the woody
green neighbourhood ravine.
We do tell him how much it is that
we admire his tenacity and endurance,
his struggle with the plight of an urban
forest. He grins, tells us the forest pays
tribute to his efforts, releasing to him
the many edible mushrooms his curiosity
and his omniverous palate enjoys.
Petulant and studiously self-absorbed,
the veneer of her youthful sophistication
is dreadfully skin-thin. She poses and
preens, expresses anguish that she is so
little understood, sneers at her
presumed detractors; adults who fail
to take her histrionics seriously enough,
finding no humour in their wryly fond
observations about the Drama Queen.
Her response is revenge; swiftly unsubtle
and arrogantly brutal. A child's mind
in an adult image, struggling to find
herself in a world hostile to her unearned
expectations. She turns a cold eye, a
haughty demeanor on all who dare to
impugn her exceptionality; therein
lies the kernel of her survival, she feels.
