(no subject)
There was an old man who carried a rose petal in his guitar case. He played his guitar more than ever now that he had reached old age. Some of his comrades had arthritis too bad to keep up their hobbies, but for some reason the old guy's hands were stronger and steadier than ever. He hadn't always played his guitar this often, sometimes he'd get distracted by his day job; sometimes he got discouraged because his guitar reminded him of dreams he'd left behind. Other times he'd play for hours, days at a stretch. Sometimes he'd play a lot when he was lonely; other times when he had a lady on his mind; other times when someone inspired him to remember that dreams should never be left behind, only reshapen. In all these times, the petal remained in the case. It dried, but never crumbled or lost its brilliant velvety redness.
Some old men are frightening, particularly to little children. This old man had a gentle way about him, his whole demeanor whispering peace into ears full of chaos. His little granddaughter loved him, he could not crush her but only protect her the way he'd protected that lifeless petal for so long. She loved that petal, but he wouldn't let her touch it.
"Papa?" He raised his glance and brown eyes told her to continue.
"What is this petal for, Papa?"
He smiled.
"My petal is for hope, baby girl."
"What does 'hope' mean, Papa?"
He couldn't answer right away. He thought back to his boyish broken heart. Maybe not the worst break, but the one he was certain would never heal and would continue to ail him. The petal had come from the heartbreaker as she turned her back and walked away from him -- forever. He held onto the petal and donated it a spot to rest inside his guitar case (did he refuse to open it sometimes because it reminded him too much of her?). Other boys would borrow his guitar from time to time, trying hard to make music as beautiful as he could. "Don't touch the petal," he'd say. They never did tweak that guitar just the right way to make the music come out as beautifully as his. It wasn't the guitar that held the secret, it was his hands; hands that carried the case with the petal, his hope, inside.
To know him it was no surprise that one day, after his dreams changing shape a few times, they took back the form they'd originally claimed and his dreams came true. The petal remained. Her back hadn't been turned -- his heart hadn't been broken -- forever.
And still he held that petal. He carried its presence all the time. He promised its hope to every soul. He held it out so often, sometimes people thought maybe he was blind to all the heartbreak. And sometimes the hopeless took heart because he was so certain and so strong and all they needed to do was grab on. He wasn't blind: he knew heartbreak. He knew it so well, so many times, he poured its color into his hope and the petal stayed velvety blood-red.
"Baby girl, feel my hand," he said.
"It's strong, Papa," she said.
"Hope means using all your strength in both your hands to hold on so you don't fall down. Like how I never let you fall crossing the street."
Hope wasn't blind: he could see his granddaughter plain as day.
Some old men are frightening, particularly to little children. This old man had a gentle way about him, his whole demeanor whispering peace into ears full of chaos. His little granddaughter loved him, he could not crush her but only protect her the way he'd protected that lifeless petal for so long. She loved that petal, but he wouldn't let her touch it.
"Papa?" He raised his glance and brown eyes told her to continue.
"What is this petal for, Papa?"
He smiled.
"My petal is for hope, baby girl."
"What does 'hope' mean, Papa?"
He couldn't answer right away. He thought back to his boyish broken heart. Maybe not the worst break, but the one he was certain would never heal and would continue to ail him. The petal had come from the heartbreaker as she turned her back and walked away from him -- forever. He held onto the petal and donated it a spot to rest inside his guitar case (did he refuse to open it sometimes because it reminded him too much of her?). Other boys would borrow his guitar from time to time, trying hard to make music as beautiful as he could. "Don't touch the petal," he'd say. They never did tweak that guitar just the right way to make the music come out as beautifully as his. It wasn't the guitar that held the secret, it was his hands; hands that carried the case with the petal, his hope, inside.
To know him it was no surprise that one day, after his dreams changing shape a few times, they took back the form they'd originally claimed and his dreams came true. The petal remained. Her back hadn't been turned -- his heart hadn't been broken -- forever.
And still he held that petal. He carried its presence all the time. He promised its hope to every soul. He held it out so often, sometimes people thought maybe he was blind to all the heartbreak. And sometimes the hopeless took heart because he was so certain and so strong and all they needed to do was grab on. He wasn't blind: he knew heartbreak. He knew it so well, so many times, he poured its color into his hope and the petal stayed velvety blood-red.
"Baby girl, feel my hand," he said.
"It's strong, Papa," she said.
"Hope means using all your strength in both your hands to hold on so you don't fall down. Like how I never let you fall crossing the street."
Hope wasn't blind: he could see his granddaughter plain as day.