Monday, February 15, 2010

Envy

Little Timmy stared sullenly out his window. From the second floor of his father's mansion,he had a grand view of the breath taking garden below. Roses and carnations all around. Mighty trees that were mere seedlings years and years ago. The babbling brook that sang to him sweetly every morning as he opened up the windows. It was all his father's doing. He had hired many laborers to tend to his beloved garden. His father used to regale him of stories of how his mother fell in love with his father in the rose garden.
Timmy took a deep breath and savored the fragrance that Nature had blessed the roses with. As he looked around he saw the old gardener tending to the roses. Willy. Old Willy was hired by his father long ago and as far as Little Timmy could remember, he was always in the garden tending to his beloved plants. He would talk to them and laugh gently as though he heard a funny punchline from the carnations. Carnations telling jokes. Timmy smiled to himself at the ridiculous notion. What Timmy wouldn't do to be in Ol' willy's place... To be in the garden all day, tending to the plants, sampling their fragrance and laughing merrily. But it was not to be. Timmy had years of schooling ahead of him. His old man had planned out his life down to the last detail. Harvard. Business deals. His father's inheritance. Timmy wanted none of that. He didn't want years and years of education; being cooped up in classes and juggling books. He wanted the simple life.

Old Willy had a bad back and he hunched over the roses and watered them. He was aware that he was being watched by the young boy. Old Willy had made a lot of mistakes in his life. Alcoholism. A brief fling with hashish. A one night stand he wasn't proud of. But he regretted not getting an education. All the experiences of school that he never could have. His father had drunk all his money away and drove his mother to her death. No amount of hashish could dull the pain or repress the memory of finding his mother in a pool of her own blood. Severed wrist. If he had only gone to school like the rest of them, found a good job and made something of himself. He had no-one to talk to. The roses atleast listened to him. And at times they swayed in the gentle breeze as though empathizing with him. He would let out a silent muffled laugh, full of sorrow and regret. The roses say nothing. If only he made something of himself, he could have saved his mother from his father and his father from himself. Instead he would spend the rest of his living days working for a man who he wanted to become someday. If there was a creator, this would have to be one of his sicker jokes.

Old Willy and Little Timmy looked at each other. The young blue eyes met the weary olive gaze.

"I envy you."

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