I grew up in a quiet town, off the coast aways. As time went on I came to know each and every face. Mr. Bete, the florist, who loved to sweep and gape, at every new visitor that came from out of state. And on a hill not far from home, lived a rich man and his wife, they kept their noses turned straight up at neighbors passing by. My school which had seen better days still seemed to come alive, and as the final bell did ring out ran the hungry tide. Those days all seem so long ago, each face has left or died. But this town still sits on timeless sand, forever intertwined.
Now I am far much older, closer to the end. Though the school bell still keeps ringing just as the clock ticks on my stand. Mr. Bete Jr. now is the florist hand, gaping like his father, at every passing man. The rich man and his wife, both died as did their wealth. The home is now in shambles, with not a penny on a shelf. Their faces still swim past my eyes, like ghosts that will not sleep. To truly live on in memories is really quite a feat. Maybe this is legacy, or I am too old to think. But it seems that though time passes by, in forever’s wake we’ll keep. As long as there are those alive, we live in memories.
Forever doesn’t hold a grudge, it remembers everything. The ugly and the beautiful, the happiness and grief. The shells by the ocean’s edge, the whisper in the trees. The laughter of an unknowing boy, at the age of 3. That is my story, as I have lived it, there is no mystery. My name is Walter Billingsley, and I’m now 83. I feel like I have lived forever, or have I lived at all? As I watch the tide recede, with my trusted dog, I cannot help but think, why are we here at all? There must be rhyme or reason, a rise after the fall, a purpose for every season, or forever makes no sense at all.
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