Life
There sat an old man on the
porch. He was long and gray.
Skin that looked similar to a
dried raisin. Dark as a wet
pecan. His eyes a light green
color. You know his dad was
one of those Creoles. How did
his skin get so dark? Working
out there in that field for that
white man, they say. Worked
there so long his back and
knees gave out one day while
he was tilling the land. He sat
still on the wooden chair in the
shade of the sloping roof of his
shack. His wavy gray hair wet
with sweat around the sides of
his head and on his bony chest.
He had lost the interest in
keeping it groomed so the
waves had lost their shiny
luster. The wrinkles pooled
around his eyes and sunk in his
cheeks. They told him that he
had gotten that from his
grandmama's white side
because his ***** grandmama
on his daddy's side died at the
age of 80 without a wrinkle. He
had always resented his white
side and the more he loathed
them the heavier his heart
became. The heavier his heart
became the deeper the wrinkles
became. So this hatred was the
cycle of his life. His large hands
spread out dangling at his side.
Not swinging, just dangling as
if they had steel poles in them.
They looked so heavy attached
to his little arms. The veins
shown blue through his wrists
at the base of his hands. More
privileges and favor with his
father's people because of that.
He wore no shirt. Only khaki
slacks that looked as old as he
did. He wore no shoes so his
long feet rested on the creaky
boards of the porch. He sat
with his eyes staring out at
nothing. The children played in
the yard. Screaming and
running around with laughter.
Their mothers just across the
street talking and gossiping
about the young women at the
street corner. Envy in their
voices as they discussed and
threw out their opinions. The
men gathered around the
mailbox tossing and dice and
yelling out profanity to each
other. Everyone going about
their daily lives. The old man
still sat motionless as a
painting. Look closely. His chest
is not moving. There is no
breath blowing out of his nose.
He had become a corpse right
where he sat. And so we see
the cycle of life. Laughter.
Gossip. Lust. Envy. Innocence.
Play. Youth. Sin. Life. And
death.
Copyright © San'Tina Mickens | Year Posted 2014
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