Cycle of Life

The rains came, as they always did. Prickly wet fingers, beating a staccato rhythm loudly upon the galvanized tin roof of the shack.  Rivulets of mud transforming the previously dusty road into an impassible bog.  Outside the shack, all signs of movement ceased, save the incessant rain.

The old man sat inside the door, jaundiced eyes viewing the scene.  It was not new to him.  It represented a lifetime of seasons that exhibited the fickle whims of the tropics.  He knew instinctively what to expect.  After the rains would come the oppressive heat, baking the dirt and bringing the mosquito’s and other preying insects.  The mangroves would again thrive in the brackish waters of the swamp.  Bamboo shoots would rise majestically where yesterday there had been nothing but grass.   

The man knew it well.  It was the cycle of life.  His life.  He knew no other.  He was as one with natures architecture.  Subsisting on that which he could grow and harvest, catch or kill.  Beginning as a child, learning the skills of his father.  Growing into one who provided for his own family, passing his heritage to his children.

 However, that was yesterday.  Many yesterdays.  A lifetime.  Now all behind him.  Age stealing from him his ability to endure, infirmities sapping his faculties, pain becoming his companion.  He stared listlessly at the machete on the table before him.  The handle worn and smoothed by decades of use.  The blade, sharpened so often that it’s shape had been altered.  He reached for it, touching it with his weathered hand, almost a caress.  A cough racked his body, exposing the congestion that lived within his chest.  His breathing labored, he sipped water from a shell cup until again able to regulate his breathing.

His gaze turned again to the portal.  The cycle playing out once again.  But this time, it was different.  This time, he knew the rain had come for him.  The drumming on the roof calling him. The life he knew was being washed away.  A new pallet was being created that did not include him.  “It is as it should be” he thought.  “I have had my season”.  Slowly he rose from his chair and struggled to the small cot in the corner.  Lowering himself, he sat briefly on its side,  raising his hand as if in goodbye, then lowering his head to the pillow and, as a slight smile touched his lips, closed his eyes.

The rain continued, as it always did.

About oldmainer

I am a retired manager living in Southern Maine and a would be writer of poetry, narratives, short stories, and random opinions, and that's how Oldmainer was born. Recently, I decided to try an experiment. I added photography to the mix, using only a cheap cell phone with a limited camera and the editing software that came with it, and added the blog site Inklings at poormanspoet.wordpress.com to showcase the results. So, feel free to use whatever you find interesting or worthy, but please honor the terms of my copyright when and if you do. They may not be much, but they are still a piece of me. I appreciate your checking me out and hope that you find something that will encourage a return visit. Thanks for stopping by.
This entry was posted in Aging, Generations, Journey, Life, Rain, Reflection, Seasons, Short Story and tagged , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

3 Responses to Cycle of Life

  1. quiall says:

    WOW! Powerful piece on so many levels.

    Like

  2. scifihammy says:

    Beautifully written and thoughtful. 🙂

    Like

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s