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Monday, July 11, 2011

Angels on the Moon

I am an old man now. As I sit on my porch, in a time unlike where I started, I look out to the sunset and I see that it has not changed. My children have grown and gone away. My wife is buried in the cemetery- her soft hands and withered smiles bless my days no longer.
Now, I sit and wait my days out. I have lived a full life and regret nothing that has happened. I sit and wait for the day that she will come for me- like she did with the others. She has promised me this, if nothing else. I sit here, waiting eagerly for her lovely face to peak on the horizons and see her milky skin once again.
It is she that I sit here for. It is she that I am waiting on.
I hear the sounds of my grandchildren laughing. Oh, how it reminds me of her. I do not wish to part form them, but I must leave, for it is the way of life. My children have come to say their final goodbyes. No one wants to admit that my days are drawing close, but I know it well. They stammer in their farewells, never really saying goodbye.
“Remember when we went to France and you side that it was the place you meet the Angel you had been searching for…,” my eldest daughter says, smiling at the memory with tears in her eyes, “we believed it was a real angel…as children do.”
It is their way. I know this. They talk for hours: Kate, my eldest, Liam, the second, and my sweet Lily, the youngest. We talk of old times, but they never say goodbye.
They are leaving. Hugs envelope me before they begin piling into the vans. Tears are shed because I will never see them again. I know this.
Promises of later visits are yelled out the windows of the departing cars and I wave and nod as if agreeing that it will happen. But they won’t. I know she is coming tonight-like I always seem to know.
I eat my last meal. My favorite dish: rice with mushrooms. It is a simple meal. One I had made with her and one that she loved. The rice is over-boiled- a much of white starch, but the mushrooms are juicy and flavorful. I always make it when I think of her.
The sounds of the night begin to echo through the house as I bathe and get ready for bed. I have said my goodbyes. Now, I wait.
I go to the hammock on the back porch and I watch the sunset. Just like her soft skin, her bright eyes, and her dazzling smile, the sun has not changed. Are they one? I wonder. No, I know they are not. The sun cannot match her in beauty.
It is the same sun I stare at now that had set on the day I first meet her…

An original work by: Jessie K.

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