This is October's Portrait of Words as hosted by Jeff B. (see link) . Go to his site and read the rules and join us in an exercise in creativity. The pictures and rules will be posted there each month by Jeff B. (A Word In Edgewise ) plus picture credits. I hope you will enjoy my offering for this months "A Portrait of Words". In honor of my Uncle Martus Douglas I offer "Father Time".
He hated airports. He couldn't tell you why, but it was always so. He'd heard his father say time and again that airports were nothing but the scenes of sad goodbyes. He hated airports nearly as much as he hated telegrams. He remembered the telegram that had been delivered to his mother's hands so many years ago, that devastating piece of paper from the war department that had destroyed a family. And now, here he sat in this airport, waiting. His eyes kept moving to the clock that hung on the wall, the hands dragging by . It was as if the world had tipped on its axis, and time had slowed to a crawl. He had been in such a hurry to get to this place, he had left the camera bag in the delivery truck, along with his son's possessions, the ones that had been returned to them. When they had first gotten word of the terrible blast that had brought their world to a standstill, he hadn't known what to do, where to turn, who to lean on. His wife leaned on him, his daughters leaned on her and like the tower of Pisa, the fall was coming. He just didn't know when.
His son. His boy was so proud to be a part of his Country's defense. When the word had come that he was to go overseas he may have been nervous, but you wouldn't have known it. He showed nothing but pride and even a bit of excitement that he was finally given a chance to put his training to good use. He knew that he had a calling, he had answered that call as soon as he had graduated from the Seminary. He was sure that he would be of better use on the front lines than at home. He knew that he could bring comfort to the men and women who were in the fight every minute of every day, those who needed the support of a strong shoulder and an understanding heart. He had taken pictures of the foreign land that was his temporary home, of the children caught in the middle of hell, sometimes smiling but more often souls showing the strain of war. One picture, of his son carrying a small bundle of blankets (with a little face just visible above the top fold), tears running down his son's face, was framed and hanging in their home Church. Money had been collected to help send the child to a hospital in Germany to have an awful wound repaired. They hoped she would be able to remain there and out of harms way. He wished sincerely that they could bring her to their home to rear as their own.
He hated airports. The hands on the clock read 2:45. There was a restaurant across the way and he decided to go over and get a cup of coffee. Maybe a sandwich. Anything to take his mind off how the time dragged by. He walked into the dimness of the place, ordered a coffee and danish and sat down. In the back of the room was a beautiful billiards table, the balls racked and ready for the break. He remembered teaching his son the rules of the game, how he had laughed as the boy began to talk about being a pro and making enough money to build his mother a dream house. He was ten at the time. Did all sons want to build their mothers a home they had provided, taking them out of their husbands purview? It was a rivalry for attention from the day they entered the world, he decided. He took a sip of the coffee, hot and smooth. Colombian beans, he decided. No bitterness, these people knew how to brew a good cup of coffee. He bit into the danish, the taste of it filling his senses with a guilty pleasure. He looked at the clock. 2:55. He covered his face with his hands and noticed that they shook. He needed to be in control, he was meeting his son today, taking him home. He held the paperwork someone (he couldn't remember who) had pushed into his hands just yesterday. The papers that his son would need for some unknown purpose. He wondered who else would be here, who else was welcoming a son or daughter home. He moved to another seat so that he could look out into the lobby, perhaps see someone who looked as befuddled as he felt. Someone with shaking hands, clutching useless papers and watching a slow moving clock.
Was there some secret code that they now would share, one that someone had forgotten to give him. He remembered his secret decoder ring that was such a prized possession when he himself had been his own father's little boy. Captain Midnight. Would he need his secret decoder ring? He saw a gray faced woman standing at an Airline reservation desk, her hands shaking, clutching a sheaf of papers. He noticed her eyes. They were hollows of pain. Where was her husband, he wondered. She shouldn't be here doing this. Not alone. He looked again at the clock. The time seemed to have picked up a little speed. It was now after 3 pm and he heard the flight arrival being called. Leaving the coffee shop he headed to the gate leading to the tarmac and waited. The woman from the counter was suddenly standing by him, her breath coming in short sharp gasps, the paperwork held close to her chest, as she had once held her child. He reached out and took her hand. If there was any objection, she didn't show it. The plane landed, and the belly of the beast opened. He waited for someone to come to them, lead them to the tarmac. He saw the line of men and women, saluting as the fallen soldiers slowly came off the plane. He dropped the hand of the woman beside him and slowly now, he approached his son. He spoke softly to him. "Your mother wanted to be here, Son. But I haven't been able to get her to leave her bed since we got the news. But she will. And you'll see, she'll be fine." He placed his hand in the vicinity of his child's chest and wept.
Now he watched as the woman from the counter was led out to where he stood, the tears falling now out of once empty eyes. She staggered, the Chaplain caught her and he quickly moved to her other side to take her arm. She looked at him with gratitude and misery. They stood at attention themselves as their sons' comrades in arms began to move the flag draped coffins to waiting hearses. He took a deep breath. And wondered if he'd ever recover.
