The last tear

    He didn’t recall the moment he got old. He only saw his reflection in the mirror and thought it was his dead grandfather playing games again. Inside he was still a lad growing up on the streets of Dublin where survival meant being tuff and full of Gods grace. He learned to fight from his grandfather under the watchful eye of his dad, who also was taught by granddad. Mom didn’t like the fighting and got her fair share of time picking bits of gravel from fresh wounds. It was a rough life back then as he walked away from the reminder of age. He lived here all his life and saw wars against brothers who shared different values and beliefs, never knowing when and where they may meet up again exchanging blows and eventually gunshots. Like most things, time heals but never to the very core as some beliefs we take to our graves. He lit his pipe and had a seat on the porch looking out over the land he fought for and the land that would consume him when the last tear fell from his face.

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