Don was angry, pent up rage unleashing itself freely as I listened in silence. Super smart, in school Don loved Shakespeare and Latin. Social skills few and even though his exams grades were excellent, interviews were never his forte. Back then, people like Don didn’t stand a chance.
He became a fisherman in the broad Atlantic, long hard hours, poor conditions, wet to the skin oftentimes. When inclement weather prevented him from fishing, he wrote poetry, he read Shakespeare, he quoted Latin.
Tirade complete, restful sleep wraps him in tranquility and peace. Transfiguration!
Today, he smiles his kindly smile as I walk into his room, Don is still a handsome man. His poor feet, purple and swollen, calloused hands too, never knew a kind touch until now, evening of his long life.
Today, he smiles his kindly smile as I walk into his room, Don is still a handsome man. His poor feet, purple and swollen, calloused hands too, never knew a kind touch until now, evening of his long life.
We pray together, as always I am slow to depart. Precious moments do not come to us from nowhere.
‘There lives the dearest freshness deep down things’. (Gerard Manley Hopkins)
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