Silent Memories

It is as though all of our encounters were silent, and yet all of my memories of him resurrect feelings of joy. As a little boy, I always felt safe and peaceful when in his presence. This is a feeling that I miss. We lived "in the moment", although truth be told, he lived in what could have been a ten foot by eight foot room. In this room there was a bed with a small table next to it. One wall supported a shelf and two others held the corner of another table. Each piece of furniture housed various old and broken objects, much like the bed that housed him. To me he was a saint, complete with a smoke ring halo, who would make me eggnog and roast sunflower seeds in my blissfully silent memories. I only remember one conversation with him, which has the power to bring tears to my eyes. For the sake of omitting a lengthy explanation, consider it a seven year reunion. His voice was sincerely happy; mine was distant and nervous. If I could go back, I would have made that moment count. I would have let him know that regardless of the life he led, he will always be my saint. Ironically, I find myself staring at a charm: "St. Michael, Pray for us." Perhaps to him, I was his saint, praying for his soul, as I know he is looking over mine.