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Charles' Stories Stories by Charles Croes, true Aruban :)

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Old Saturday, December 25th, 2010, 12:24 PM
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charlescroes charlescroes is offline
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Default Aruba wind dried his eyes

NOTE: The original version of this little Snippet was written in 2007. I re-wrote it recently in hopes that I could give one of my favorite little creations a bit more substance.



Aruba Wind Dried His Eyes


Here - on this island

When cars numbered less than fifty
When smelling like sweat and salt was a good thing
When closets never held more than three garments per person
When shoes were bought by the color and not the size
When shaving with yesterdays shaving water made the blade slide better
When “Rocking Chairs” were prized possessions
When saying “hello” was the start of a conversation and not just a greeting
When fish were eaten and not “prized”
When the elderly were considered wise and not old
When (if you got sick) you went to the old lady that lives in the hills
When receiving a letter was cause for a reunion of family and then later, a telling to friends

During those times - Long ago - here on this island - Lived a wise man – he was elderly
His life partner and friends knew him well – They knew his strengths and understood his weaknesses
This man thought of his children - Off far away in a country called Panama
Four days by boat (not 1 hour by plane)
He thought of their misfortune – not being here on Aruba at his side
They lived in cities of at least one thousand other souls – It must be stifling

On soft nights - this man stood and spoke to the night - and it listened
He chanted his children’s names - Almost a moan
You could hear him - He would say
Come back to us - We are alone - You must be lonely for us - I know this
Here, not there - We are your home
The small hills by the ocean miss you
The cacti have no-one to prick and the thorns are bloodless
The birds have no one to sing to and their voices are now weak
Your dog no longer barks at night sounds - he sleeps, his head on his paws
Crystal clear waters miss your splashing
Dirt roads are without the marks of your bare feet
These things my children - these things are bad

On soft nights - this man stood valiantly and leaned into the heavens
He leaned into the winds and dared anything to stop him
His white hair was combed by the wind in a handsome way
He chanted his children’s names - Almost a moan
He wept softly at receiving their letters - They were read to him by others
He read not - His wisdom did not permit it - he was to wise to inflict self pain

This man - this man - this lover of his family moaned at the night
And to maintain his pride – he went to the small hill in back of his home
And there - All alone with his island and its elements
This man removed his shirt and bathe in waterless fountains of loneliness

Friends and family wordlessly looked on – yet pretended not too
They stood with legs tight to each other and hands crossed in front
They honored him with their eyes
And as they did
The wind would dry the old mans eyes

Here on this small island
The loneliness made him perspire
He took pride to know that smelling like sweat and salt was a good thing

And cars numbered less than fifty
Here on this island

be well
charles
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