I felt the words in my veins. I waited quietly for the new person that would take me in. While I waited quietly, things ran through my mind as I remembered my journeys. From the first person I came into servitude with.
A large man, greatly feared by many, but in our silence he came quiet and reserved, intelligent and non-judgmental. He was the author of a book that did not exist. His hands were that of a man whom had seen things, experienced them, loved life, his family. He was a hard man, much like the leather bound book he carried everywhere until one day he put it down.
I never saw much of him after that, but my servitude to him was that of greatness, if only one could be called that. I was in awe of his manor and kindness, his strength, and the lack of his willing to give up what he held so true. In the end he paid the ultimate price.
His was the first blood that spilled upon me, as I cradled him in his place as he wrote the last page in dedication to me. I had seen so much in my existence, but not as much as this man whom touched me so dear.
He never saw me as a servant, but as a needed piece of his life. He nurtured me, taught me, and cared for me, dare I say, if it was in his heart, he loved me. As I did him in my position that was as acceptable as could be. I remember the candle light that he would write by, and the frustration knowing that his time would soon be what he spoke of. That he would leave his mark, not only by the mere existence of living, by the mere being of the fact he had offspring.
He had many children and some how found the time for each in their own uniqueness. He taught me a lot about being alive. I saw this man go through struggles that most would become crushed under, yet he some how always managed to survive. I was always along for the ride, until the day he became one with the book so to say.
The manuscript. His masterpiece that would never be read or published. Never read by the world, that was not his intent. His intent, simply wished to be that of the man he spoke of, that he would not die with out honour. That he would die true to what he believed so much so, deep inside, he would give everything before he caved and lost the only thing that truly mattered, his soul. His dignity. I watched the world through his eyes. I suppose I am the one whom sat to the side. Watching, absorbing, living vicariously through this man I was indebted to.
I often looked forward to the life he and I shared. It was a mutual agreement. I was his to be there, a companion of sorts, someone to hold his cigarettes and his vodka. To listen to his concerns, his joys, to hear and feel the pain of his daily life. That is what I was. I was simply there to learn. To accept, to be what I was. It was simplistic, amazing and a gift I chose to accept.
When he came to me, I knew. I learned. I had one mouth, two ears, and many compartments that held valuable knowledge. I don’t know what happened on that fateful day of him becoming one with the book. I never questioned. I was simply there. His words touched me so deep. They were that of a man far beyond his years.
His ending proved to me that in time we all fade, even me. Yet, somewhere in the recesses of his mind, I was important, and he was important to me. If I could have cried, I would have the moment that his last breath was taken.
My emotions did not matter. They were insignificant to the moment. They did not matter. All that mattered was that I was to complete my task, what I was called to do, what my creator had called upon me to do.
Then it was over as quickly as it began. I traveled for the first time away from this man whom carried this manuscript. Which in the end he placed in my hands to hold tight to. To give to men whom would find the path to wisdom. To be able to speak what they felt with the right direction. To be granted that gift. That was my purpose. His last breath now lied within me.
AingealiciaWrites 