In the Cellar

In the cellar, by the stair way, is an old jug of muscadine. It brings back sweet memories of an old friend of mine. We used to chat and play chess to fiddle the time away. It mattered not the undone chore, or the time of day. Forty three year he lived mostly alone in that house by the stream. Forty two year he tendered to me as I followed life’s dream. I’d go back and sit once in a while, spinning that same old line. He knew! But he would just fill me a glass of muscadine. One of those times he told me a tale worthy of publication. He married my mom not for love, but to save her reputation. Mama died when I was born; his health began to decline. I left home right after school, he was drinking muscadine. I stayed in touch and tried to visit as often as I could. We’d sit and talk, play a game, pretend that life was good. We would walk by the stream, talk of things long benign. While we tarried ‘long the way, to sip that old jug of muscadine. © Apr 14 2010