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About one middle aged man and his lost voice

Updated on February 15, 2017
Beata Stasak profile image

Beata works as a qualified primary school teacher, a councillor for drug and alcohol addiction and a farm caretaker for organic olive grow.

‘Don’t leave me,’ he said without words ‘I need you, ’ She didn’t reply. She just wrapped her arms around his neck and held him close.

He had been handsome

with sandy hair

and piercing blue eyes

the colour of a tropical sea.

When he smiled

those eyes had twinkled

extending into long white crow’s feet

on his weathered brown skin.

His mouth had turned up at the corners

even when he was solemn

as if a smile was his natural expression

and it cost him to be serious

He bounced when he walked,

his chin high,

his shoulders square,

exluding a wild and raffish charm

powerful enough to soften any heart

“Oh, I fear for you, my son,”

his old mother used to say.

“I brought you into the world

and yet I can not protect you from it.

I do the best I can, but it is not enough.”

He would just smile tuning his guitar

and when she started to sing

he would settle his eyes

on her face.

There was something tender

in the way he looked at her,

as if his restless eyes

had found refuge there.

He wanted so badly to sing.

His voice rose up from his chest

like lava.

It boiled and bubbled

and grew so hot.

He felt the sweat gather

on his nose in small beads.

He was ready to burst with song.

and Yet he couldn’t…

He had loved the lady next door

with all his heart when he was a boy.

It was a love bright with awe

and admiration,

like one might feel towards a rainbow

or a golden sunset:

a distant,

unattainable, idealised love.

And he missed her terribly

once she moved out

out of their backwater town

to live in a big city

She never knew of his love.

He had no words to tell.

Later he discovered

another kind of love

to fill the hole that the lady

of his dreams had left.

A love born out of gratitude

and an understanding beyond words

his childhood friend

the only childhood friend

his Jane

The were still children and yet he thought of her

every hour of he day as a man would.

He lingered by the bridge in the hope

that she would seek him out,

and she did seek him out,

as often as she could.

When he wasn’t attending to flowers

for his mother to sell

He was with her

and when he went to bed at night,

it was she who chased his nightmare away

and filled his head with her gurgling laughter

and invincible spirit.

She talked with her lips

he answered back with his eyes.

Before Jane came to his life

he had been content

playing among the flowers alone.

He had accepted the fact

that he couldn’t speak

without complaint.

He had grown used to it.

Besides, before, he had had no friends

other than his mother.

Now, the lady next door had opened his heart

and Jane had reached out to him.

He wanted to break the pane of glass with song

and touch Jane with words she could hear.

He didn’t want to be an outsider any more.

He felt hot tears sting his eyes

and wiped them away in a fury.

Jane planted a kiss on his cheek.

Finding him once crying by the creek

It remained on his skin

the entire life like a whisper.

She said she’d always be there for him.

But that wasn’t true.

Nothing in life is permanent.

Time would carry us on,

but it would run out eventually.

His mother said once to him

the day she found out she has a cancer

The following year she wasn't there any more

and he was alone again.

Always alone

among the rows of blooming flowers

no one was there to sell


a solitary ageing chevalier

with no words

to tell.

He watched them walk away.

Side by side,

husband and wife,

leaving him alone

and bewildered

on the cemetery.

He gently placed

the favourite flowers

on his mother grave

and turned to catch

her parting glance.

There was anger in him

in spite of its tenderness

He had no justification

for being furious.

They had been children, after all.

But she had been his special friend;

her husband his enemy

for he can talk.

Seeing her after so many years

he had suffered the same dizziness

in the head,

the rush of blood to the heart,

the spinning sensation in the stomach,

the sense of grappling against gravity

to hold on to someone

and the terror of losing them.

He felt it then

he feels it now.

She hand never belonged to him

but he was overcome with a need

to hold her.

He opened his mouth to shout

to stop her

but no sound came out.

He hunched his shoulders against the cold

and thrust his hands into his pockets.

With a pang of regret,

he watched them disappear around the corner.

She didn’t look back

and he had no voice to stop her.

He turned to walk back to his flowers

and his lonely house.

Standing in front of his mother’s

childhood home,

for once he didn’t think of himself

and the voice he had lost and never found

but of her and the losses she had endured.

She was alone.

Abandoned by the man, his father

she had loved.

Ostracised by the town she had grown up in,

disowned by her family.

she had endured far more than him,

and what is more,

she had never stopped loving him.

In spite of his anger,

the abuse he hurled at her growing up,

disappointed with his muteness

and disability to voice his desires

his rages and tantrums,

she had never closed her heart to him,

or the door.

He awoke the following morning

determined to change.

He never looked back

and he never searched

for his lost voice ever again.

Mary wiped her tears and kept driving

she was on the end of her road,

freshly divorced and without work or aim.

The sweet smell of flowers lured her towards

the old farm gate.

Finally she drove the car

into a rustic farm entrance.

There were barns on either side,

their walls pale beneath red tiles

and raws of flowers everywhere.

She noticed a red tractor and smiled

her father owned one on their family farm.

She drew up outside the house.

It was pretty with tall slim chimneys

and windows framed by white shutters.

Ivy grew up the walls

like the beard of an old man.

Mary stopped the car and stepped out.

Standing a moment on the gravel

she looked about her

and soaked in the warmth of someones’ home.

Somehow she could feel she should be there

and this is the end of her journey

She didn't know who he is

but she knew he was there

because she could feel him.

A moment late, when he stood in the doorway,

with sandy greyish hair

and still piercing blue eyes

the colour of a tropical sea,

when he smiled

those eyes had twinkled

extending into long white crow’s feet

on his weathered brown skin.

Mary was suddenly shy

'I love your flowers,"

she whispered at last,

his wizened face broke

into a tearful smile

and he opened his arms

to welcome her home.

‘Two strangers embraced,

without words

savouring the strength

of their bond

that had enabled them

to be close.

He looked old and fragile in the doorway,

she noticed

and suddenly felt the strong urge

to take care of this man

who didn't talk and just smiled.

Inside the house

he carefully unwrapped the old guitar

and when she started to sing

he settled his eyes

on her face.

There was something tender

in the way he looked at her,

as if his restless eyes

had found refuge there.


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    • Beata Stasak profile imageAUTHOR

      Beata Stasak 

      2 years ago from Western Australia

      Thank you my fellow hubber, very appreciated:)...thank you for your kind words and hope you come back again:)...B

    • bravewarrior profile image

      Shauna L Bowling 

      2 years ago from Central Florida

      Beata, this is an amazing story. I love your style. You bring your characters to life as we follow them on their journeys. This story is full of reflection, sadness, regret, hope, comfort and happiness. I love it!

    • Beata Stasak profile imageAUTHOR

      Beata Stasak 

      2 years ago from Western Australia

      Thank you my friend thank you from the bottom of my heart and hope you are ok:)

    • profile image

      Bakr Alduri 

      2 years ago

      It really is very easy to get caught up in the emotions of your writings my friend.

      Wishful thinking and the simple acts that break and heal the's just as good as you've always done.

      Nothing in life is permanent.......time would carry us on....I love the words

      All the best Beata

    • Beata Stasak profile imageAUTHOR

      Beata Stasak 

      2 years ago from Western Australia

      Thank you Jodah, yeh, smile you right I would need full time proofreader with my writings, I am impatient writer, writing fast what is spilling from my head and do not like to go back reread it, terrible I know:)...story telling is something we have grown up with in my culture, every one is born storyteller where I come from, but few like it to write it down:)

    • Jodah profile image

      John Hansen 

      2 years ago from Queensland Australia

      Beata, your writing evokes such strong feelings and emotions. You tell a beautiful story here. (You just need to proofread this to make it perfect. I found a few typos and occasionally the wrong word used e.g. Hand instead of had). Good job though. You are an amazing story teller.

    • Beata Stasak profile imageAUTHOR

      Beata Stasak 

      2 years ago from Western Australia

      Thank you my fellow hubbers thank you from the bottom of my heart, something catch my attention, a piece of writing somewhere or a piece of information I overheard and my imagination just fills in the dots and the words just pour out of me...all i need is a quiet corner and time to write which is often luxury for me:)

    • FitnezzJim profile image


      2 years ago from Fredericksburg, Virginia

      It is way too easy to get caught up in the emotions of your writings.

      No words.

      Shy loneliness, ever wishful thinking, and the simple acts that break and heal the heart. No words can ever say how well you write.

    • always exploring profile image

      Ruby Jean Richert 

      2 years ago from Southern Illinois

      This is a beautiful, narrative piece! Somewhat sad, yet tender...


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