A Print Of A Man

I had walked out of the bush an old man. How Old, I did not know? The years had passed without the need to celebrate the remembrance of a birth date. There was something familiar about the place I stood. Slowly, faint memories recalled past moments of my life. As a young man, I had walked across this field many times.

I noticed a man rocking lazily on an open porch across the field. I know the man approaching; there is a twinkle in his eye. We pause and stop, our eyes studying each and every feature of the other. He is familiar; I search my memory for names to place with the face before me.

""Thomas?""

""Yes, I am Thomas Chapais.""

""Thomas I am Nicolas.""

Two old men stood there dumb-founded with nothing to say but to repeat each other's name with favour, contempt, anger, sadness and an undying love that only kinship knows. Without an embrace, nor a handshake we bonded as brothers need to. Our eyes were reluctant to gaze away for fear of the image disappearing.