"My dear, young man,"
she began,
gazing earnestly over her half-glasses,
her heart aching for him,
"the birthright is yours,
yours to claim,
yours to own.
Even now the circle crumbles;
once dissolved,
all support ends."
He sat in confusion:
birthright? circle? support?
Turning and turning his ball cap in his hands,
he said,
"I don't understand."
She never was this serious,
this intense,
and it frightened him.
She reached out to clasp
one of his soft hands
in hers--
gnarled and arthritic.
Claws, he thought,
though he didn't pull away.
She means well;
am I losing my grip,
or is she?
She spoke quickly:
"The Interval ends;
now is time to receive.
You are of age,
and though we hoped, of course,
this day would not come,
it has.
Are you ready?"
"I...I don't know.
What are you talking about?"
"Too late," she said,
glancing up and around,
as if something large loomed with them in the old parlor
"Open your heart now
or deny your legacy."
In one, awe-filled second,
horrible with hope and dread,
he closed his eyes and said,
"Yes."
Text and image © 2012 by Dirk deVries. All rights reserved.