Wood Gatherer

 Authors Note: After being at the Art Museum I didn't really know what to write about, but then I remembered this painting called the Wood Gatherer. In it there is an old man carrying a pile of sticks he looks so sad. He is surrounded by trees and flowers and ahead of him is a carefree child.

Sore back and aching legs, each step feels like its own harsh journey. The weight on my back is unbearable, and the wood is a small part of the huge weight upon me. How I would do anything to be rid of this, this weight of sorrow, guilt, past. Ahead of me the child dances through wild flowers, laughing at their tickling sensation, the happiness across her face makes me wistful. I think to myself There was  time when I was like that, but I can't remember, this life has taken everything and anything happy. The girl, my granddaughter has such joy on her face, her carefree skip makes her look like she is floating above the unworthy ground. Her joyous face turns to me and I see her looking into my eyes, I try to smile back, but can't. My sad expression troubles her, but only for a moment, then she is off again racing a pair of butterflies. Her life so full and solid now will not be for long, life is like a rock on a seashore, constantly being washed over by waves, until finally its tiny pieces float through vicious waves. Her soul makes her fly above clouds in golden sunshine, my soul in the dark and cold barely drags itself across the dirt. Nothing can be felt, because while her's sings the songs of birds mine lies in the cold coffin dead.