15 April 2012
On my journey to work over the years, I have befriended a man of great integrity, whom I hold a fist- full of admiration for. I call him my Guardian Angel, because he gives me sound and solid advice through his life-long experiences. I feel privileged knowing that he could off-load all his burdens that are pounding down on him like the thundering hooves of a thousand stallions.
His name is Tom. He is a man who towers over you like a sky scrapper touching the sky. He has a lean and perched like a bird posture, but he is like a delicate rose, gracing you with his presence with a gentle and sincere feeling of compassion. His hair has a fluffy meringue like texture, a white- mousy, egg yellow colour; stained by the smell of the lingering nicotine smoke.
In the morning he greets me as he opens the gate like a gentleman on a first date. His hoarse voice anxiously ushers me inside to quickly prepare a daily dose of coffee to simmer his caffeine fix. I emerge from the kitchen with our two cups of pick- me- up juice, as he sits patiently in anticipation, craving for that first sip, which sends him on a higher plane from the aroma; he presents a look of satisfaction on his profound face.
He chats endlessly about topics that arose him, the 'Government' being his speciality! He abruptly rambles on about his local residence, which are all on hand- outs from our hard earned taxes, which our spine-less 'Government' freely hand over. Steam bellows from either side as he reaches boiling point. His complexion turns a ripe- red colour; an image of distasteful resentment over- laps his acute face . His diplomatic behaviour charges forth, and takes over, as if he is possessed by a historic figure from the French revolution. He would inflict immense pleasure in using the guillotine for a taste of revenge.
With a lack of empathy he describes his experiences when he was summoned to do his national service, at only eighteen years old. Tom had joined the Maindy barrack headquarters of the Welsh Regiment. He was posted to Luneburg, Germany, whilst he was there he was trained to use, what he called; deadly weapons to exterminate his enemies. He had to respond to every command, like a child that had to abide by his parents . The days were extended by the harsh and rigorous exercise that he had to endure. Tom and his platoon had to trudge through an unknown wilderness with survival equipment strapped to their backs, which dragged them down to the depths of despair, draining them of all their resources. The bitter- cold winters seized up every bone in his body. His burning desire to feel that bit of warmth against his tender and blistering skin was a comfort blanket, as it embraced his longing for his two years service to end.
A photo of Tom and his belated wife Lillian, takes first preference on his cabinet, catches his eye. With the look of sorrow on his face, as tears start to swell up, flooding his eyes with the painful memory of her departure, he talks about her with an enormous amount of admiration. The first time their eyes met, was after the Second World War at a local dance. He knew at that moment that he would spend the rest of his life with her. They danced proudly in each other's arms, into the endless night. He was smitten with her flowing hair, as though it resembled a chestnut- mane, as it accentuated her porcelain complexion. She seemed caring with her angelic eyes, as they streamed sincerity. He adored her sweet scent of her fragrance, as it tantalised his senses and sent him wild with passion. They married at the Holy Trinity Church, and it was the happiest day of his life. Lillian took his breath away, as she glided slowly up that pathway to heaven, with her pure as snow gown, as it glistened brightly, blinding you with her beauty.
Their yearning to start a family was not to be. They had tried continuously for a child, and every time their hopes were shattered into a thousand splintering pieces. Instead they had adopted a dog to make their home life more fulfilling. They called him Brave-Brono, because he was as strong and courageous as a lion. His intimidating exterior seemed threatening, but that was deceiving. He would greet you uncontrollably with a saturating- saliva kiss and an almighty hug, which sent you flying into the next room. Their hearts were broken in two when Brave-Brono passed away of Cancer at the age of ten. From that day, he was never to be replaced.
After a packet or more cigarettes later, he sits perched in a moment of silence, and takes another sip from his half- empty cup, which has lost all its concentration from that first lingering aroma. He proceeds to elaborate about the extended range of books he has read, from terror trembling: 'Stephen King', to the adventurous adult: 'Bill Bryson'. I look upon him as a walking talking library.
Tom talks freely about his hopes and aspirations for the future, and that is to retain full use of his co- ordination , after suffering a massive stroke back in the eighties, as it had thrust him unpredictably in another direction. His frustration erupts with a look of desperation in his eyes, as if he feels imprisoned by his insecurities, that chains him to the bars of his perimeter, and he grips on tightly to the hope that he would someday regain full use of his balance, and claim back his freedom of independence, without fearing he would be blown over like a tree in a hurricane.
It's 6:45am and I slowly emerge from my thoughts of Tom. Unfortunately Tom passed away peacefully in his sleep. I pine for his existence every day, when he used to make me laugh hysterically at his jokes and cry uncontrollably at his misfortunes. I have learnt so much from Tom, by taking the time to listen, and that is one of the most valuable qualities that he had given me, and will always treasure! Tom died a broken man, but now he is where he will be mended, with his ever-loving wife:'Lillian', and dog:'Brave-Brono'. ~By MICHAELA ~
My Guardian Angel • Opuss № I