Age of Wisdom

Age of Wisdom

Noel Laflin

9-20-15

Her first trimester consisted of many great poets. The words of Frost, Dickinson, Millay, Whitman, Poe, and Cummings were among some of the opening verses to be read aloud.

With the sudden and reassuring quickening of the child’s movements, giants in literature soon took center stage. Shelley, Hugo, Verne, Melville, Austen, Dumas, Twain, Hemingway, and London all then had their moments - whether by light of day or the soft glow of incandescence.

When she hit the final home stretch and discovered that her ever swelling body was not cooperating as easily as it once did, the woman found that even the simplest task of fluffing pillows from behind was a bit of a challenge. 

But motherhood looked good upon her nonetheless.

“Fair trade,” she mused, settling in at last, all the while carefully reaching for a heavy volume perched precariously atop an untidy stack of novels and verse. The tower of hardbound classics had been threatening to topple in teetering fashion for weeks now.

“If you tumble,” the woman warned - her voice lightly chastising, “well, so be it.  I suppose that there are worse things in life other than great words and works being spilled and tossed about my bedroom floor”.

“Now, where were we,” she asked the swollen outline hiding beneath the covers as she opened the tattered volume, removing the fragile oak leaf serving as bookmark.

"Ah, yes, Mr. Dickens at his finest. Listen carefully, child:”

‘It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope …’

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The bedroom still looked remarkably the same. 

A middle-aged man sat in a chair next to the bed in which he’d been born, adjusting the glow of an old incandescent light resting atop an ancient nightstand piled high with books, most having been published a century prior.

He’d been in and out of that chair for months, reading aloud to the old woman resting comfortably in the bed.  Sometimes his children accompanied him and spelled him for a while, continuing with the stories and verses long into the quiet hours of the night as the man dozed in the chair.

Thus, they had covered many of the great poets during the first three months of his frequent comings and goings to his boyhood home.

They had then moved on to the giants in literature shortly thereafter and he brought the old woman up to speed with the likes of Tolkien, Bradbury, Lee, Irving, and Solzhenitsyn.

But tonight, the man was alone.

And although the old woman had neither eaten nor spoken for the past three days, he was certain that there was nothing wrong with her hearing.

Thus, he had been saving their favorite for last.  And they were now on the final home stretch.

“We are nearly at the end of Mr. Dickens’s fine tale, mother.  I propose we wrap this one up tonight.  But, I’ve a feeling that you and I both know how it ends. “

And with that, he opened the tattered book, carefully removing the old oak leaf still serving as bookmark, and began:

 ‘It is a far, far better thing that I do than I have ever done,’ the man quoted, leaning in closely – enunciating in a clear, soft voice.

‘It is a far, far better rest that I go to than I have ever known,’ he concluded, his voice breaking ever so slightly.

The old woman smiled as the covers gently rose and then settled quite still and moved no more.

“It was the spring of hope,” the man whispered, carefully replacing the old leaf bookmark before he closed the book, and blindly placed it atop the precariously leaning tower of literature.

He was not quick enough to catch the unbalanced stack before it tumbled.

Great words and works spilled and tossed about the bedroom floor, spanning an age of wisdom.