In the sweetest ways, Harold was an edgy man. He had a bold brow, deep care in the center of his eyes, and his bravery was tall with stature and magnificence. His white hair was now fluffily matted in places he didn’t realize. He had a strange habit of opening his mouth to speak far too long before saying anything at all. His patience was a mystery. It has always been a pending question whether Harold was simply patient, and compassionate toward all of humanity, or if it was because of his great journey which he silently carried the weight of alone. No one really understood the ways of this man called Harold. He carried a slight darkness on his shoulders--not the kind that would harm a soul, but rather strike one into a pensive state. A sad thing happened once, to Harold. As we all know, sad little things happen every day, to copious amounts of people. Then, there’s that sadness we speak of that means more than sad. It’s more poignant, more damaging, more severe. This was Harold’s sadness. It came to him, and never left him. It happened to him, and he never forgot.
Harold had a family once--A wife and three sons. They all lived in a big old farm house on a hill. His wife, Kairo had dark frizzy hair and a radiant soul. Her stature was simple. She wore no makeup, and never much colour in her clothes. Her words were said meekly, yet with abundant potency. She was neither dull, nor dramatic. Harold’s sons were tall and thin, but each one very different from the other. Fin was a serious boy. Never laughed, never said much at all. Every once in a while Fin would wear a small grin. That’s when the rest of the world knew that this serious boy named Fin was having a moment. His ‘moments’ were his own secrets. His secrets of inspiration from things like tiny rain drops on the living room window, the sun just peeking through each individual drop, or crunchy brown leaves against the bright yellow wheelbarrow in his father’s garden. Abbott was a boring young boy. He didn’t care much for deep thoughts or things of any importance. He didn’t care much to talk . He only liked girls who liked the same things he did: drinking, joking, television, sports and parties. He was a good boy, but had been brought home by the local policemen a few too many times. Dannie was dramatic. He loved to sing, but his greatest joy was the cello. He played for hours up in his attic bedroom. He would hear a song on his mother’s record player when he was just a toddler, and he would stop whatever it was he was doing just to stare at the ceiling, which followed by slowly closing his eyes and simply standing there in complete stillness and silence just to hear every note, feel every note. Dannie wasn’t brave, or strong, or predominantly anything other than a musical genius. These boys, so young, but each so formed and fitted right into himself. So different and so wonderful. Their mother would do absolutely anything for each one. And Harold, well, he tried to--every day. Sometimes, he would just watch them all being their own. He never said much to his sons, and sometimes they hated him for it. But in his heart, Harold was melting, he was watching them thinking, ‘masterpieces’.
One cold, wet, late October afternoon, Harold answered the ringing telephone on the rugged wood wall of his garden shed. “Harold Manning? I’m so sorry…”
He collapsed with a thud on the floor and eventually got up, moved into the empty, unearthly quiet farm house on a hill. He stayed there. He didn’t leave. He didn’t speak for months. His masterpiece boys, the woman he loved more than life. They were gone. They were gone, and it was here…
Harold Manning’s sadness.
xx jan
