L'aura del Campo

Name withheld

"¿Cómo, muerte, tenerte miedo?" Juan Ramón Jimenez [1881-1958]



Name withheld

_____ lived in the quietest house on the block; he never had visitors and seldom was invited out. But, he never missed a wedding, sitting in black at the back, toasting with an empty glass. He skipped funerals and the festivities that followed. "I only knew them well towards the end," he'd say, soft voice trailing of...

_____ lived in a small cottage surrounded by a few flowers he tended just before dawn. The rest of the yard was mint and the fragrance was intoxicating when he mowed it back. The neighborhood cats would gather in ecstasy and kept his yard free of rats. not that he needed their help, but a different cat curled up on his porch every day. They approved of his gentle nature.

In winter _____ could be seen sitting behind his geraniums, his pale face peering out. He was old and frail people would say, not up for a jaunt, his blue blood running cold through his veins. But he doesn't look old, the children would chirp, and he always smiles when the birds flock to his feeders! The cats kept watch.

_____ lived humbly, did not nose into others' affairs. Felt no need to keep up, had plenty of time to spare. Rarely, he'd go out at night for a walk as if summoned. Those who saw him swore he danced in the moonlight to the tune of the stars before he blended in with the dark.

When invited to a supper he couldn't refuse, _____ always left before others, always found some excuse, "I must get up early" or "Surely, you'll have more fun when I leave". Both were usually the truth. Somehow folks were uplifted by his calming demeanor, but would sigh when he left, somewhat relieved. They always smiled their goodbyes.

How long _____ had lived there no one living could tell. But births and baptisms, weddings and wakes came and went, passing him by, till no one alive could remember not seeing him smile, black-cloaked and quiet, lifting an empty glass in a toast to them all.

© Kåre Enga 2011 April 29 [168.55]



Ah... Death as friend and not adversary.



Various Spanish poets from Spain. Really like Juan Ramón Jimenez.

The clouds are pissing again... warmth is coming.

62,076