Spirit Vessel III – Goin’ to sea no more

More than a year has come and gone since I finished this painting.
The hammock, the tunic, the sea chest and the cane are all safely stored in the prop room.
The house, which sheltered the dear man who once owned them, is visited by the
occasional wanderer brought down the lane by the promise of the for sale sign.
But it has been waiting.
Loyal to the layer of its stone and tender of its magnificent ferns.

Dear Robert, the former farmer and now legless rommate,
called often to let us know of our friend Mitchell.
We visited when we could.
Learning the ways of the nursing home.

On Thursday last,
when Gully and I were on our morning walk, we visited the walnut tree and encouraged our
friend to come home. The old bench behind the shed where he and his pal used to spit and tell
lies has been leaning to one side since Russ died in March.
The garden is gone to tall grassy weeds.

The next day, after our morning rituals Gulliver and I headed up to the studio.
The photo I keep of Burnell on my shelf had fallen over and I set him back upright.
I was to begin a new sketch and had taken a pair of overalls and the old rusty shovel Burnell had
given me and was arranging them when the intercom rang.
They had just called from the nursing home.
Burnell had died on Thursday morning.
Just about the time we were walking across his field.

No service. A veterans grave far from his home.

I turned to the painting, meant to honor this humble sailor,
grower of tomatoes, me feeble friend.
The simple measures of his life, which he was so surprised to find someone was interested in as
I cleaned out his attic last year, were the talismans of his navy days. War time memories
overlooked because of his stateside service. This sailor who built torpedoes here in Florida,
saw no combat, and so would not accept the few tokens of medals
coming to him to adorn the bare tunic.
After the groceries were put away and he was settled in the ragged armchair,
with both canes astride, he would share a story or two.

The two old men are retelling them now, on their bench tonight,
whispering in the moonlight of their silent acts of heroism.
Now they can actually hear each other without those blasted hearing aids.
Or is it just the August crickets.