La Vida En Gris 

 

 

The old man sat
Upon his chosen root
Of the great and ropey fig tree
Atop the large mountain that had carefully guarded his small village for centuries

From the pocket of his grey and road worn jacket he produced a small pouch-
The contents of which, one rolling paper, a single striking match And enough tobacco for one cigarette.

As he delicately rolled the small paper into a cylinder between his fingertips, his gaunt and boney hands trembled-
Images from long ago began to fill his mind

The old man took the small match from within the pouch and with a fierce snap of the head between his calloused fingertips, ignited the small device, lifting it reflexively to the end of the cigarette which rested lightly between his chapped lips-

As he inhaled the sweet smoke from his tobacco
He remembers the glow of the ancient sun at evening's end
And the smell of the infinite ocean as waves crashed onto his feet
Not long ago
When he was young and beautiful
And had a brilliant fire in his heart

He looked into the rays of the setting sun through his mind's eye and lifted the tobacco to his mouth for a final puff

He was ready.