the candle burns low upon the shore, rest in peace. always and forever.
Four years ago, George died. For those of you who have never seen him or even heard of him, I can safely say that you have known a George at one time or another in your life. You've read about him in a newspaper, or have seen him ask you for change on the corner. You've reminiced about his memory, and sometimes on the coldest of days still think of him; still think of who he was and who he wasn't, the people he will never met, and the sunsets he will never see. Much like you, I only have one memory of George. I was quite young. Six or seven I suppose. I caught him rocking in a chair, on some quiet afternoon on my grandmother's back porch; my presence completely unknown to him as I walked past several times. But no matter what, his rhythm ensued as he rocked back and forth. He was smoking a pipe. I can almost remember how it's scent lingered in my mouth. It smelled sweet yet uninviting, and it billowed in clouds around his head. He looked quite simple, and content, but underneath his slacks and his thick blanket that had now fallen off to one shoulder, an emptiness lingered. I could see it in his eyes. It was the way he stared out into the trees that made you wonder if he was really looking at all, or if he simply looked to refrain from making eye contact. As a child of course, things arent supposed to be this way. My eyes never did meet his, though I suppose somewhere on that back porch our thoughts connected, and for a moment we could adjust to the light breeze that began to blow.