Ode to R.D. Quinto

This goes to a little brother of mine, not biological, who just passed 4:00 of this afternoon.

 

Silence swept all over the grassy plains. It had been like this for hours. Naturally, a place like this would be teeming with activity. From the miniscule insects unnoticed by vagabonds to the wild beasts that inhabit these plains, a chirp, a roar, and even a yawn, are more often heard than nothing all.

 

A lone figure stood over a huge uneven stone which, in itself, stood as a mark for something other than itself. It leaned over one side but it didn’t look like it would tipping over anytime soon. Old, forgotten and never taken care of, the stone marking stood right beside a sturdy old oak tree. If it wasn’t for the same tree, it’s not doubtful anyone would make out its current location.

 

The tree, in itself, was magnificent. It had withstood the testament of time. When it started to sprout was uncertain. The only thing that was certain about that oak tree was that it was older than any other around the premise.

 

A young well versed hand made its way against the tree’s bark. The feeling was clearly admonished by the owner of the hand. He caressed that same bark, deeply taking into his own emotions stories of years that had gone by. He looked at the old tree, guardian of the tomb before him, and smiled at it, showing utmost respect and gratitude for its ever vigilant stand.

 

The same young man looked at the stone and read what was written over and over again. It was like he was never obliged to memorize the name, date and the lasting words the writer immortalized with the soul of whoever took solace in that uneasy bed. His smile grew shorter than its innovative length. The smile faded on the right side of his face and turned into a smirk as he shifted his gaze and attention to the clear blue skies above.

 

The clouds lazily floated overhead. None of them were in a hurry to get somewhere else. In his own thoughts, he lost himself. A past unraveled before his very eyes, one that was both good and destructive. Although he preferred not to think about it, an image of a young girl, 13 or younger, remained in the skies, in his own sight and no one else’s. He didn’t know whether he would smile or cry. All he knew was that it was good to have seen her again. And for sometime, he let her stay. She sang and told him stories like she did long ago. He had forgotten his past and his ancestry to commit to a better future, one that he hopes would no longer contain misery and grief.

 

The trance ended abruptly when his right palm made its way into his sword’s purple hilt. The texture snapped him out of the illusion and dragged him feet first back into reality. He longed to see her again, he longed for the happy feeling he forgot he ever had with her. For another minute or so, he continued looking up at the sky, wondering if someday he may be as fortunate to see her again.

 

A cold gentle breeze paid him a visit. It was his cue to leave. He had never spent any of his time for others. This was his first. He eased his touch from the oak’s bark and, while he continued smiling, took lavender from inside his robe. He gave it a good look, raised his head up to the skies for her approval, and quietly placed it over the mound of earth that served as a coffin of a past he could not leave.

 

He shook his head and smiled at his own folly.

 

I’m still an emo, eh?

 

He looked back up at her and shook his head once more.

 

The cut stone reads:

 

Ralf Dino Quinto

B*****d to many, good to the worthy

Author's Note

This is an ode to a little brother of mine, not biological, who chose to end his way. Back in high school, I adopted a lot of younger years than me... It was a shame he had to leave us that way but nonetheless, I hope he's happy wherever he is right now.

Image Disclaimer: I do not own the image included. I just found that it suited my piece so there you go. Special thanks to the original artist.