A Simple Sound

13 December 2011

My troubled ear could not define, a simple sound most refined.  I was lost inside of shadow and confused.  Alas!  My equally troubled mind does have a history of playing tricks on me.  Though I sat for some time, still my troubled ear could not define that simple sound most refined.  I crossed my legs and eased myself back into my chair, sipping my warm brew.  The cool November air chilled me so, but I was thankful for my coat and boots, as well as my warm brew.  Still the sound I heard (or did I?) left me unnerved and cautious.  I looked about the boulevard, the fallen leaves strewn along the walkway.  It was most definitely autumn; a melancholic time if I may say so.  I do prefer spring, as it were, as a season of life and renew.   But I digress, my day was a mess and my troubled ear decidedly stressed.

I had been a writer for years, as a vocation.  Though the earnings left much to be desired, I found the work invigorating and therapeutic.  I guess the son of a cemetery grounds-keeper can be too poetic about his chosen profession!  However my father was less so.  He often spoke of his own work as honourable and spiritual, of which I thought odd from a man who never in his life stepped a foot inside of a church.  But as a small child I recall with much clarity walking past the grounds on my way home from lessons and seeing him eat his lunch in the middle of the headstones.  Peaceful and alone.  I made many attempts to liken my work to his once I became a young adult, to my frustration and failure.  I do believe once I had refused his arrangement with a friend in town to become an apprentice cobbler our understanding of each other waned.  That my earnings left much to be desired only affirmed in his mind that I had made an exigent error.

I have found people to be quite strange, if I am being honest.  Strange to the affect that I am most comfortable within the confines of shadow on such a cold and dreary autumn day.  But again, I digress and still my day was a mess.  I have not written for years, as a vocation.  I have occasionally put pen to ink and noted some random thoughts, but rarely have I assembled such prose as I did in my youth!  I simply do not have the inclination, if again I am being honest.  Much time has passed and many trials I have endured.  As I sat alone, confused, my mind grew weary with the thought of such trials.  And still my troubled ear could not define, a simple sound so refined.

My father had passed on a cold, winter day not unlike the autumn day of which I sat.  My regret was that he was alone and not surrounded by his only family, a literary son whom had fallen to his disfavour.  It had been years since we had spoken and many more since we had expressed a caring for one another.  That, too, remains my biggest regret.  The melancholy remained, though I could no longer sit for such an occasion.  I rose from my chair and fixed my coat, and slowly walked the path toward my home.  My troubled ear had eased a bit; the simple sound had removed my regret.  I smiled as I walked on through, and heard my father’s voice whisper again, “I love you”.