"I have been about the living of many things, too many things, old friend," my grandfather spoke into the air, to someone I was not able yet to see.
"I have missed you," the air whispered as the mist rolled in from the waters of the Chateguay as if the world we had just known was being washed away.
"And I have missed you," my grandfather answered as he drew me into his side with a weep of his arm. "I have brought my grandson."
"I am glad you came, young one. I sense you have no fear." The airy whisper slowly thickened into the sound of well-seasoned oak, a low, slow, deep- barreled voice, coming from the tree, yet also coming from everywhere, from within the beating of my awestruck heart, from within the wistul peace in my grandfather's face.
The old man in the oak somehow beckoned us to draw near, to become lost in his voice as leaned back against the old man's soul. "There was a time when all things were young," the story seemed to begin, "before the woods were ever dressed in burgundy and old gold, before the geese ever took flight to those somewhre places beyond the distant marsh, before the harvest ever became a thanksgiving of what once was hope, before life lived turned into legacy passed on. Yes, there was a time when all things were young.'
I felt the urge to say something and I so I did ... somehow. "Was this long ago?"
"Was it, old man?" My grandfather nodded, and then as almost a confession, "Oh, not that long ago at all. just at the other side of a handful of yesterdays.'
The graying blue eyes of the old man that I loved then almost smiled me the words, "We were all young then before the passing of time began, before the growing of life set out on its course."
I don't know how an old oak tree nods in agreement, but this old oak tree surely did. And I rested awhile, as did we all. Listening. Waiting for the something more that we knew was waiting in the moments to come.