Making Peace
“This looks like a
graveyard,” James said.
“It is,” Harold replied. “I believe it was the last time I saw Big Burt. He walked
around, studying the headstones. Then he motioned toward a patch of grass.
‘Right here is where they’ll bury me soon,’ he said. He knew he didn’t have
long.”
“That’s sad.”
“Not really. Burt didn’t seem at all distressed. Just calm, resolute, sure of
himself, as always. Which is how I hope to comport myself when the time comes.”
James closed the album.
“Well, Harold, this is quite a moving collection of images.”
“Thank you.”
“And I think you truly understand the utter necessity of carefully documenting
important episodes of our lives.”
“I do. There was a time when I contemplated burning the whole lot. Everything
that was connected to those catastrophic marriages of mine. But I’m glad that I
didn’t.”
“Your tone tells me you’ve finally made peace with them.”
“In part, yes.”
“Beter a little than not at all, eh?”
“Perhaps,” Harold said. “We all heal in our own way, at our own pace.”
* * *