on the table, one passage in particular coming to mind that always stuck with me.
There is no endowment in man or woman,
that is not tallied in you.
There is no virtue,
no beauty in man or woman,
but as good is in you.
No pluck, no endurance in others,
but as good is in you.
No pleasure waiting for others,
but an equal pleasure waits for you.
That was from Pap’s favorite poem called, To You .
He’s always been an incurable romantic. I’m sure his passion for the written word had a lot to do with winning Gram’s heart.
I grab the Whitman book from the table, smiling to myself at memories of the most amazing man I’ve ever known.
I look up to see his peaceful face.
With one hand gripping a book—and the other holding Pap’s hand—Gram reads Yates to her beloved husband.
My heart warms at this touching vision before me.
In the old days, letters were hand-written and intimate. It seems archaic now with the advancements in technology. So impersonal—yet convenient. The idea of someone writing down their favorite poem and mailing it to someone they love, well most people would find the notion absurd. But not my Pap. Gram still has boxes of poems and notes he sent her all those years ago.
As a society, we’ve become inherently lazy. Everyone’s always taking the easy way out—looking for the quick fix. It’s no wonder love is no longer appreciated the way it used to be. It’s no wonder love has lost its meaning.
Pap has always told me, “If a man can’t give you the name of at least one famous poet or author, don’t waste your time, Chloe. A man with love in his heart will have it filled with poetry...and the rest are animals.”
And I’ve always believed him.
These days, actual poetry’s been lost through song writing. When a guy starts spouting lyrics, he assumes you should go weak in the knees. Yeah, right!
Sure, some songs are pretty. But for the most part, it’s the music or the melody that grabs your heart. Not the words. Poetry on the other hand, doesn’t need musical accompaniment to make it beautiful. It just is .
Perhaps the next time I see Hunter I’ll test his knowledge of poetry. I can’t imagine a tough guy like him would have the first clue about the classics. Considering the fact that he enjoys talking like he’s in an old black and white film, it’ll be fun to find a weakness.
I need to start bringing him down off that pedestal in my mind.
And speaking of Hunter, I haven’t seen him yet today.
Maybe he won’t be coming by after all.
Sadness seeps through my chest at the thought.
Not to worry though. It’s not like I need the distraction.
Gram closes the book and turns to Dru. “Your turn, dear. Why don’t you read him a story this time?”
Dru grabs a book from the table. “I think that can be arranged.” He takes a seat opposite Gram, then begins.
My brother has the most soothing, melodic voice. Pacifying. The inability to hear it in person for six years gives me a newfound appreciation for its tenderness.
As I sit in the corner listening to Dru read from Pride and Prejudice , I take a moment to look at Pap’s surroundings; what he’ll see when he wakes up.
If you take out the monitors and tubes, it doesn’t even look like a hospital room. There’s nothing clinical about it. Instead, the walls are an earthy shade of garnet, and my pap rests comfortably beneath a coordinated pattern of chocolate, burgundy, emerald green, navy blue, and crème linens.
We’re thankful for the oak table and chairs. Much better than the cold, impersonal waiting room. But you can usually find me parked on the cozy loveseat—mainly because I enjoy the soft, glowing light from the floor lamp.
Each wall wears a painting of various outdoor scenes: Vibrant, crisp autumn leaves; a gorgeous, spraying waterfall; and an artistic field scattered with a multi-tonal array of flowers. They sort of have a Thomas Kinkade feel to them.
It’s a masculine atmosphere, but
There is no endowment in man or woman,
that is not tallied in you.
There is no virtue,
no beauty in man or woman,
but as good is in you.
No pluck, no endurance in others,
but as good is in you.
No pleasure waiting for others,
but an equal pleasure waits for you.
That was from Pap’s favorite poem called, To You .
He’s always been an incurable romantic. I’m sure his passion for the written word had a lot to do with winning Gram’s heart.
I grab the Whitman book from the table, smiling to myself at memories of the most amazing man I’ve ever known.
I look up to see his peaceful face.
With one hand gripping a book—and the other holding Pap’s hand—Gram reads Yates to her beloved husband.
My heart warms at this touching vision before me.
In the old days, letters were hand-written and intimate. It seems archaic now with the advancements in technology. So impersonal—yet convenient. The idea of someone writing down their favorite poem and mailing it to someone they love, well most people would find the notion absurd. But not my Pap. Gram still has boxes of poems and notes he sent her all those years ago.
As a society, we’ve become inherently lazy. Everyone’s always taking the easy way out—looking for the quick fix. It’s no wonder love is no longer appreciated the way it used to be. It’s no wonder love has lost its meaning.
Pap has always told me, “If a man can’t give you the name of at least one famous poet or author, don’t waste your time, Chloe. A man with love in his heart will have it filled with poetry...and the rest are animals.”
And I’ve always believed him.
These days, actual poetry’s been lost through song writing. When a guy starts spouting lyrics, he assumes you should go weak in the knees. Yeah, right!
Sure, some songs are pretty. But for the most part, it’s the music or the melody that grabs your heart. Not the words. Poetry on the other hand, doesn’t need musical accompaniment to make it beautiful. It just is .
Perhaps the next time I see Hunter I’ll test his knowledge of poetry. I can’t imagine a tough guy like him would have the first clue about the classics. Considering the fact that he enjoys talking like he’s in an old black and white film, it’ll be fun to find a weakness.
I need to start bringing him down off that pedestal in my mind.
And speaking of Hunter, I haven’t seen him yet today.
Maybe he won’t be coming by after all.
Sadness seeps through my chest at the thought.
Not to worry though. It’s not like I need the distraction.
Gram closes the book and turns to Dru. “Your turn, dear. Why don’t you read him a story this time?”
Dru grabs a book from the table. “I think that can be arranged.” He takes a seat opposite Gram, then begins.
My brother has the most soothing, melodic voice. Pacifying. The inability to hear it in person for six years gives me a newfound appreciation for its tenderness.
As I sit in the corner listening to Dru read from Pride and Prejudice , I take a moment to look at Pap’s surroundings; what he’ll see when he wakes up.
If you take out the monitors and tubes, it doesn’t even look like a hospital room. There’s nothing clinical about it. Instead, the walls are an earthy shade of garnet, and my pap rests comfortably beneath a coordinated pattern of chocolate, burgundy, emerald green, navy blue, and crème linens.
We’re thankful for the oak table and chairs. Much better than the cold, impersonal waiting room. But you can usually find me parked on the cozy loveseat—mainly because I enjoy the soft, glowing light from the floor lamp.
Each wall wears a painting of various outdoor scenes: Vibrant, crisp autumn leaves; a gorgeous, spraying waterfall; and an artistic field scattered with a multi-tonal array of flowers. They sort of have a Thomas Kinkade feel to them.
It’s a masculine atmosphere, but
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