Due to recent events in my life, I decided to post this story again.
Papa's
Key of Life
by
Kenneth
A. Stephenson
He
walked up the center aisle past the rows of gunmetal gray folding
chairs. His steps were slow and deliberate like the pendulum of a
clock. Eyes downcast, watching as first one shoe would appear then
the other. There was a small scuff mark on the left toe, it would
have to be buffed out. Looking up he saw the bronze metal casket with
golden handles. The right half was closed and draped in a blanket of
red roses. The left half was open showing the ruffled, lily white
satin liner. His mind drifted back to just a few weeks ago.
“Papa,
why do people die?”
The
old man hesitated a moment and then continued to shuffle forward down
the hall until he and the boy were standing in front of the dusty
grandfather clock. He opened the glass door on the front, reached
down and picked up the key. He reached up, opened the clock face and
inserted the key. The boy could here the sharp click, click, click as
Papa wound the clock spring. The key was placed back in the body of
the clock and with a gentle nudge the pendulum started to swing side
to side in a slow hypnotic rhythm. Papa turned to the boy with a
thoughtful expression.
“People
are very much like this old grandfather clock. When we are born an
angel comes down from heaven with a key. The key of life.”
They
walked back to the study and Papa sat down in his favorite chair next
to the fireplace. The boy climbed up into his lap and snuggled into
the crook of his arm.
“The
angel inserts the key right here”, he said pointing to the boys
belly button. “You see? Then the angel gives it a turn and winds up
the life spring inside us. When the spring of life winds down our
souls are set free, like a moth leaves it's cocoon and then flies
away. How long we live depends on how many turns of the key we
receive.”
The
boys mother took his hand in hers bringing back to the present. She
wiped away a tear. The boy peered over the side of the casket. It
looked wrong somehow. This was not his Papa. This looked more like a
department store mannequin, plastic and cold. He remembered what his
Papa had told him. This was just a cocoon, the soul had already
departed.
His
mother smiled and said, “Your Papa loved roses.”
The
boy watched the delicate wings flex next to a red petal.
“He
sure does.”
Until tomorrow,
Ken
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