His Walk Was Interrupted

His Walk Was Interrupted

(“Come to Me, all who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest.” Matthew 11:28)

 

His walk we interrupted, his thoughts diverted from
the increasing potency of pointed reflexes. He saw
his image in each drop of rain. He heard his name in
the wind that exposed the trees and stripped the leaves to
create autumn’s carpet.

He rarely wandered, but liked to explore.
He rarely spoke, but liked to ask questions.
He liked the wildlife that posed just beyond his
itinerant feet.
He liked the voice, sounding like a child, that
whispered truth so rare he had forgotten
that once upon a time he memorized the faces of
children. And now they had children and
grandchildren
of their own.

He used to walk to work. He used to stop and
visit with the widow who tended her roses and
fountain in her front yard across the street from
the courthouse. He didn’t know all their names,
but petted the dogs who lived on the edges of
downtown.

It did not take much these days to throw
him off balance,
his equilibrium was affected as much by
gravity as it was by sound. He spun
inside, he twisted everything around his heart
in vain attempts to forget the faces that
ghostly adults displayed. He knew there
was a place created,
an Eden orchestrated,
that invited his rest.

And sometimes he did. Rest.
And sometimes he didn’t. Rest.
And rest became his comfort. Quilt.
And rest became his prayer. Quilt.

And he was blanketed by the name that
gives all the world the definitions that,
if we are willing to hear,
describe a love that transcends the
misuse of letters sent ages ago. He
needed to hear from former days;
he needed to listen more slowly and
pick up his pace. He loved the moments
when he forgot the epithets appended
to his name.