Old Soul

He is the village story-teller.

He tells stories about another time when the grass was greener and the trees taller. He speaks about men who were giants compared to today's men.

He takes his time telling his stories. He chews on a blade of grass or sometimes puff a cigarette before beginning. It never matters to his audience, comprised mainly of kids whose parents cannot afford television.

Nobody knows if his stories are true. Nobody cares. It is the rhythm of his voice that attracts his audience. The rhythm is truth.

A few days ago he told his last story. He is silent now.

I overheard a young boy repeat one of his stories to a playmate last night. I smiled. The rhythm continues.