His presence tagged along behind him like it wanted to.
The old man was genuine and worn like a leather glove, from his bow-legged stance and his unfitting P.O.W M.I.A hat to his squinted-eyed look of disgust and confusion toward the world.
He came from when boys were men.
We stood across from each other like two towers for a moment, then he broke the stare.
He wedged the bow of his pipe between his majestic fingers and pulled it away from his mouth with a tail of smoke.
This man took his time like he had time to take.
He blinked and dampened his lips, the air was ready for him to speak, and with a powerful voice that reflected all of his years and experiences he rumbled: "whats your name, boy?"
It in a sense startled me.
He sounded like a god of a man, and i heard his voice echo in my ears.
I didn't respond.
So he brought his pipe back to his lips and puffed it once, Squinting, but never breaking his heavy stare.
His cane then slipped from his grip and clanked on the tile floor.
Pause, silence, he wobbled slightly.
I cannot explain what happened next..
He spread his fingers and lifted his warped arms to his sides, palms open.
He Was Glowing...
The deep wrinkles in his face and hands began to tighten and his liver spotted skin cleared.
all of his features transformed around his unchanging eyes that continued to keep me in my place, stunned. His youth was being injected back into him. year by year, day by day
Then his flannel shirt, khaki pants and suspenders began to smolder and burn as he rewinded to adolescence.
Still the calm look in his eyes was tied to my head.
When his clothes had finally burned to an ash nothing was left but an infant suspended above the ground.
Squirming and crying reaching out at the air.
Man so Rare.