The Sound of an Old Chainsaw

The sound of an old chain saw, it reminds me of my father's hands. Large gnarled rough from many years of hard work.

 A man that was gifted with enough intelligence that he would have been equally proficient teaching in a university classroom. A man that toiled from the beginning to the end of his life, yes it's true a man that needed a task, an assignment even to the days before his death. And what's amazing is that after a day spent laboring, a day spent fighting the troubles from outside and within he would spend his evenings engaging his mind, a mind so beautifully kind but so troubled.

At times, he gave so much he seemed to slip away from us. So many times I tried to grab that illusive specter only to watch it slip back away into despair. If his fight would have been a physical one or if he would have been fighting for another, I believe he would have come off victorious. But as his hands were scarred and beat up his soul was much the same. Despite my many attempts, healing or even relief by my many words was not to be.

 Finally, the darkness took the last frail piece of that once mighty man, for it had pecked at him like carrion for years taking piece by piece until its purpose was accomplished. I so miss the deep understanding and kindness of the man not to mention his sense of humor. But it is a kindness in its self that the struggle is over. For although he chose to fight the battle alone, it caused many painful ripples in the water. They haven't reached the shore even today.