Chaos has its greatest effect when it interrupts serenity.

————

A four foot long mahogany coffin draped with Lily-of-the-Valley, Jack-in-the-Pulpit, Snap Dragons, and thistle blossoms was a stark addition to the small church. It was obvious to all who entered on this September afternoon the upcoming Thanksgiving would not be one of joy. The contents, a freckle-faced, red headed youngster with a slightly upturned nose lay unusually motionless on a white, satiny surface. The projectile from a 30-30 rifle ended the perpetual motion normally associated with the eleven-year-old.

Timothy Waters was a typical, small town youngster. He was adventurous, knew everyone, knew all the pets, and most importantly, he knew the baking schedule of everyone who routinely made cookies. Although he lived in town, he spent much of his time in the nearby woods. He was only six-years old, a first grader, when he discovered what would be come known as “Tim’s Meadow.” The small grassy opening among the trees housed a flowing artesian well that supplied a brook with bracken covered banks. The banks, adorned with wild flowers, looked much the same as the casket on the temporary bier in front of the permanent marble altar.

The week before he was to begin his sixth grade schooling Timothy with his book, tablet, high lighter, and a vinyl case of pencils headed for the meadow. His procrastination with the summer’s reading list was to end in the retreat he so loved. When he arrived at Tim’s Meadow he was relieved to see he was alone. Since revealing its existence, the meadow had become a regular hangout, but not today; it was his, alone, today.

He arranged all of his possessions on the ground and sat at the base of his favorite tree, a solitary, smooth barked, Sycamore, and closed his eyes. He breathed in the scent of autumn, and concentrated on the alluvia sounds of water babbling over rocks in a rapids portion of the beck accompanied by the whispered music of rustling leaves in a gentle breeze.

The sudden loud noise turned off all other sounds. Timothy heard neither the explosion nor the resulting stillness. A high-powered rifle bullet passed through his scull and tumbled through soft brain tissue like a whisk through egg whites. Timothy was no longer alive by the time he was prostrate among his school supplies. The projectile’s entry point was not visible, but its exit and its effects were; the entire occipital bone was gone and bloody tissue was exposed. There was no doubt; Timothy would not finish his summer reading due to a hunting accident.

News of the event caused the small community to reel with disbelief and remorse. Clarence Banting was especially distraught. He realized he was obligated to attempt relieving his daughter’s pain, but he too was in pain. Timothy was his first grandson, and from his birth was a regular companion. Clarence suggested the wild flower drape. He and Timothy, during their frequent trips to Tim’s Meadow shared a love of its natural beauty and the heavy sweet fragrance they experienced. The two would sit among the blossoms and fish the brook using crickets and grass hoppers for bait. They rarely caught any fish, but the ambiance and the companionship were rewards enough for the time spent.

Grandpa Banting before approaching his daughter determined he would continue to visit with Timothy in the meadow. He would sit at the base of the lone sycamore, and reminisce while allowing the tears on his cheeks to glisten in the sunlight.

By Robert l. Scarry

From: United States

Twitter: usnavy1990bob

Facebook URL: https://www.facebook.com/Robert.Scarry.3