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Word Hoard
He was a boy who liked to talk even though his grandfather warned him against being too reckless with the words in his lungs. "You only have so many in your care" he heard. "Throwing them around without prudence is a costly exercise that boys cannot fully understand until they are older. The wise use thoughtful speech."
The boy was too young to recognize the rare eloquence of such an articulate man; too young to realize that his grandfather's carefully chosen speech was the result of years of preserving of the right words to impart on the carefree young boy; and too young to realize that his grandfather would never again have the vocabulary to share this wisdom.
So when the old man said "prudence" it was the last prudence he had stored his lungs. When he said "care" and "wise" and "thoughtful," they too were the last of the old man's store. And when he said "old" it was an old man's last chance to describe the wholly unregrettable but melancholy final destination in life before his word hoard was empty.
But the boy didn't listen. The grandfather could see his ineffective words clearly enough, but they were spent and there was nothing more to be done. He could see the words sitting on the surface of his grandson's neck and arms and face. Slowly sinking in. All he had left to do was hug the boy and walk away.
Over the years, the boy emptied his lungs of words at pace that should have numbed his tongue. When he was ten, the last "imagination" stored in the boys lungs had been released and gone forever. But it suited the boy fine. This was part of growing up. It was a lovely word to have, but he was ready to give up such childish things. Though he was a little disappointed when he ran out of swear words on his twentieth birthday.
By the time he was thirty, he had emptied himself of his store of "love," given them all to one woman who would never offer single one of hers to him. Which was also fine. He settled for another woman, a woman who would spend the rest of he life giving her "love" unrequitedly to him. But there were a seeming endless store of words and expressions, running out of one or two hardly could matter.
It wasn’t until the boy turned forty and he realized his last "dream" was gone, and then at fifty when started feeling his precious "hopes" and "wishes" and "joys" running low that he began to worry for the decline of words in his hoard. He became quiet and reserved: Sharing very little and quietly starting to resent the recipients of his precious expressions.
He began to see, as his grandfather had before him, where his words went when they left his lungs. They landed on the walls and the furniture, stuck to the skins of people he loved and relied on. Slowly, he began to regret his youth when all his energies were spent on vain flattery. He had spent his words thinly when he should have saved them for a time when he had earned the ability to fatten his vessels thick with meaning.
Outside the sallow walls of his tiny home, he would watch people who had spent a lifetime bathed in meaningful, kind words; people who had shared their love and imagination with prudent generosity. They looked as though they had just left a spa or woken from a nap. He saw people of freshness and compassion that shone on their skin like it would on the surface of an apple mysteriously ripe beyond all expectation. The only words he had left were cruel ones, which he watched sink in and shape everyone he met but also those he loved.
So when it came time for the boy to die, he was old and relieved and had little left to say while he waited in his hospital bed. He watched a parade of his old children and young grandchildren wish him well with their teary good byes.
He heard them say "we love you so much" and "you don't know what joy you've given us" and he wanted to shout at them to shut up. To save their words, offer them to the living, use them to bathe their children and their lovers. But he said nothing. He no longer had the words. He just marveled silently at the worthy destinations for his "loves" and "hopes" stood before him and he, nearly empty, he had no more to share. He hold wonderful thoughts but no longer had means for transportation.
All he had left were the same long neglected words his grandfather had given to him all those years before. With sudden elation and urgency, such that his family had never seen, he shared words like "prudence" and "care" and "wise" and "thoughtful" and "patience."
He shared them with the young children who simply had not yet garnered the ability to listen. He shared with them these things until his lungs were at last completely empty. His words were all gone. He was alone. He looked out the window and smiled, feeling he owed his grandfather an apology. Hopefully he'd have a chance. And if he did, the old man prayed he be blessed with a new hoard with which he promised to treat with care.
And then, he closed his eyes, took his final breath and, without a word, he expired.
He was a boy who liked to talk even though his grandfather warned him against being too reckless with the words in his lungs. "You only have so many in your care" he heard. "Throwing them around without prudence is a costly exercise that boys cannot fully understand until they are older. The wise use thoughtful speech."
The boy was too young to recognize the rare eloquence of such an articulate man; too young to realize that his grandfather's carefully chosen speech was the result of years of preserving of the right words to impart on the carefree young boy; and too young to realize that his grandfather would never again have the vocabulary to share this wisdom.
So when the old man said "prudence" it was the last prudence he had stored his lungs. When he said "care" and "wise" and "thoughtful," they too were the last of the old man's store. And when he said "old" it was an old man's last chance to describe the wholly unregrettable but melancholy final destination in life before his word hoard was empty.
But the boy didn't listen. The grandfather could see his ineffective words clearly enough, but they were spent and there was nothing more to be done. He could see the words sitting on the surface of his grandson's neck and arms and face. Slowly sinking in. All he had left to do was hug the boy and walk away.
Over the years, the boy emptied his lungs of words at pace that should have numbed his tongue. When he was ten, the last "imagination" stored in the boys lungs had been released and gone forever. But it suited the boy fine. This was part of growing up. It was a lovely word to have, but he was ready to give up such childish things. Though he was a little disappointed when he ran out of swear words on his twentieth birthday.
By the time he was thirty, he had emptied himself of his store of "love," given them all to one woman who would never offer single one of hers to him. Which was also fine. He settled for another woman, a woman who would spend the rest of he life giving her "love" unrequitedly to him. But there were a seeming endless store of words and expressions, running out of one or two hardly could matter.
It wasn’t until the boy turned forty and he realized his last "dream" was gone, and then at fifty when started feeling his precious "hopes" and "wishes" and "joys" running low that he began to worry for the decline of words in his hoard. He became quiet and reserved: Sharing very little and quietly starting to resent the recipients of his precious expressions.
He began to see, as his grandfather had before him, where his words went when they left his lungs. They landed on the walls and the furniture, stuck to the skins of people he loved and relied on. Slowly, he began to regret his youth when all his energies were spent on vain flattery. He had spent his words thinly when he should have saved them for a time when he had earned the ability to fatten his vessels thick with meaning.
Outside the sallow walls of his tiny home, he would watch people who had spent a lifetime bathed in meaningful, kind words; people who had shared their love and imagination with prudent generosity. They looked as though they had just left a spa or woken from a nap. He saw people of freshness and compassion that shone on their skin like it would on the surface of an apple mysteriously ripe beyond all expectation. The only words he had left were cruel ones, which he watched sink in and shape everyone he met but also those he loved.
So when it came time for the boy to die, he was old and relieved and had little left to say while he waited in his hospital bed. He watched a parade of his old children and young grandchildren wish him well with their teary good byes.
He heard them say "we love you so much" and "you don't know what joy you've given us" and he wanted to shout at them to shut up. To save their words, offer them to the living, use them to bathe their children and their lovers. But he said nothing. He no longer had the words. He just marveled silently at the worthy destinations for his "loves" and "hopes" stood before him and he, nearly empty, he had no more to share. He hold wonderful thoughts but no longer had means for transportation.
All he had left were the same long neglected words his grandfather had given to him all those years before. With sudden elation and urgency, such that his family had never seen, he shared words like "prudence" and "care" and "wise" and "thoughtful" and "patience."
He shared them with the young children who simply had not yet garnered the ability to listen. He shared with them these things until his lungs were at last completely empty. His words were all gone. He was alone. He looked out the window and smiled, feeling he owed his grandfather an apology. Hopefully he'd have a chance. And if he did, the old man prayed he be blessed with a new hoard with which he promised to treat with care.
And then, he closed his eyes, took his final breath and, without a word, he expired.