Farewell Old Friend

Where do the moments go that so swiftly separate us from our youth. The youth that takes us down paths that now we'd dare not go. Through the years we can always drift back into our youth through Them. Those that love us long and see the true beauty of the youth that still exists. So sad the loss of this. For my dear, kind and poetic hero, what do I say?

Years and age take people to places that we can only expect, but never understand. The process of aging is one that we do over and over again. We watch it like reruns of I Love Lucy, yet there is still no master of aging. No one wins this battle.

On the nineteenth day of December, just a month ago, my Papaw passed away on a cold gray morning. Gaunt and tired, his soul left bones it had been chained to for all the time it had known. Sweeping through a hospital corridor, down the stairs and out into the gray air. Over the miles to the quaint Dawson Springs, past the little white church and the yellow house, down the lanes that went back to the depths of home. I went there with him so many times that I can see the flight he took. Sweeping through a memory at a time, taking notice of each one as he passed just once more.

I've had some time to think about it now. I think with a smile of one more conversation, it would be nice, but I won't bother. You go my friend, deep into that gray day and into the infinite blue night. There you will become the Bridge of Stars, peering into the deep blue night - I may call out to you. Never just a journeyman at the bar, No! Far more bright and prominent I am sure. Go there and stay my pal. This time your reward comes and all the seeds you have planted and watched over will still grow. Far beyond a watchful gaze and into the distant blur of time; we will go on.

Taking his place on a stone marked hill just outside the town, there rests the names of my beloved grandparents. Those that kept my youth, and held me there in high esteem. Too soon then, I bid her farewell, and now you, my pal, my friend. Now I clutch tight a favored smile and treasured phrase, with arms open wide: "there's my boy!" The memory swirls and I drop my head as tears fill my eyes. But not this time, not again! I won't cry for a man of stature! I will not be sad for a man of great will and great strength, only a fool would. I will honor this man.

All the chains that bind us now, you have placed, and I still hold. Those stay. They stay like the stories that dwell within me, they become part of me. Old Storyteller, you've put down your pen and I look with reluctance until my fingers grasp it. And with a soft smile I think to myself: Storyteller - old friend, yours will be a good long story, told ages from now with a great smile. Over and over the hills and memories of my youth there you'll be always. 

Edward E. Storms

May 5, 1930 ~ December 19, 2011