Handed Down The things we do to make up for the things we've lost. All that we have left on the side of the road. Tossed off with little thought to inherent worth. Brought to bear with incidental passings. Held aloft in the cellars of afterthought. It takes a certain understanding. A flicker of hope in the midst of troubled darkness. When the world falls under a great shadow, who will stand on the edge and strike up a flame? The poorly made up clown and the ragged troubadour. Dancing at the gates and getting themselves banished from all future festivities. The voice from the heart is running a serious risk. Disfigured manifestations of power speaking from the podium. Noble callings succumbing to petty lies and misread verses. Who's to say? Trust is a lost cause. And misery is finding new ways to reach an increasingly captive audience. But then again... Nobody comes around here with thoughts of escape. Digging in deep. Scraping the layers of paint from the grand facade. Doing a journeyman's day's work. Not looking for any pitiful handouts. Going about their business. Preserving our national treasures in spite of all the current trends. Doing the only thing they can find it themselves to do. I'm waving my banner from a faraway point in time. You'll catch a glimpse in the corner of your eye. You'll feel the presence as you rush to beat the oncoming traffic. You'll stop in your tracks when you've reached a solid square on the sidewalk. The world spins, taking you along for the ride. Good fortune smiles for all who are willing to stop and pay their honest respects. Whatever you can afford. It's the thought that counts. Grease marks. Ink stains. Coal black streaks running in sinister formations. Tears down the cheek. Bleeding from the very center. We hold our hands. We carry the ghosts from our collected past. Whether we like it or not. The unspeakable crimes persist beyond the pages of history and skip across generations. Dragged through the dirt. Hung up in the town's square. Burned to a stomach-churning crisp. Displayed with reverence in the glass case of our deepest nightmares. A black and white photo. Curled at the edges. A fat, little baby. Who could have ever imagined? Love kicks you squarely in the teeth. The immeasurable atomic weight of a discrete glance across the room. The pale sound of a car horn from a distant street. Life has a way of taking you in dangerous directions. Pitfalls at every turn. Shaky footholds. Flickering lamps. The saving grace of a friend's voice on the other side of the door. Lost among the ruins. Tapping secret messages against the standing remains of a garden wall. Holding the fort until the cavalry comes blazing over the hill. The never-ending hope of a forsaken tomorrow to rise up and free this barbed wire land. With a fresh pot of coffee and a drop-dead pinup to rally the troops. Anything to keep the spirit from packing it in. Decorating the scarred front line with wondrous ribbons, if only to remind the battle-weary soul of just what the fight is all about. A time will come. When a sullen figure stands beside a rigid monument. The sky will have cracked open. And the earth will be free to breathe again. Names will be etched in the post-traumatic memories of noticeably bent survivors. A set of modest rooms will be lent to a humble family. Dressed in their meager Sunday bests to greet a pair of wayward visitors. A chance encounter on a misty shoreline of the eternal aftermath. A daughter will appear from the kitchen with a tray of freshly baked cookies. Offering a smile and a warmth that will endure far beyond the measure of a handful of lifetimes. Wearing a velvet dress that's carried its share of missing buttons -- with a silver clasp sewn sturdily at the top, securing the integrity of her neckline. She will stand before a young man, resting in an armchair from decades past, and give him a gift that will grow greater with each passing thought. All will be nice and quiet and beautiful. A rainy afternoon will be felt. The world will continue, with the help of a few kind-hearted gestures. ~ ~ ~ Return to More Folds Questions? Comments? Send them to Daily_Editor@hotmail.com. Unless otherwise noted, all Folded Thoughts were written by me, aka The Daily Editor, aka The Man Below the Fold. Copyright 2001-2007 © Belowthefold.net