He sat atop the hill. Beneath the tree, beside the stream.
Always writing. I don’t believe I ever saw him do anything besides.
I would walk out into the morning, take one gigantic stretch, and spy the old man atop the hill. The single greatest constant in my life, he was. Writing away in notebooks, napkins, and tablecloths he would take from town when they were long stained by alfredo and apple sauce.
A great mound of scraps he would have behind him, the old man. Scraps of scrawl he did not believe worthy, did not see fit to develop. He would scribble down a twenty page tangent, review it for a moment, then, with a dismissive grunt, toss it over his shoulder.
“Fodder for the fire,” he would say.
Everyone else found it brilliant.
You see, while the old man was busy exercising his arm, tossing away the words anyone else would die, absolutely die for, I was busy sifting through his sediment.
Gold it was. Positively gold.
I sat beneath him. He atop the hill, and I on his backside. I asked him, you see, each time before I would take a piece.
“Yes? Yes, yes boy, what is it?”
“Would you mind, Sir? Would you mind terribly if I took a selection or several? Took several and gave them a look? Took several to see if I could rework them? Possibly make them my own, Sir?”
“Why yes, yes, yes. Take them if you’d like. Take them and tear them word by bloody word if you like.”
Tear them, I would. Tear them and tear over them. The old man had not a clue. Not one single clue how his humble scribbles could scratch away the gilded layer we had draped over this place.
But I knew. I knew, and I brought it to them. I brought it to them all.
His words, my words, what was the difference? I saved them, I saved each syllable from that madman atop the hill. All he can do is write and make waste. But I, I am a liberator. I salvage each soliloquy the old man carves down. I salvage them.
He casts off each child. No nourishment, no tomorrow will they have.
I am Christ.