Bitter with the Swede

The first thing I remember when I think of James is his voice, deep and gravelly with a strong hint of the South. It could range from a barely audible whisper to a booming as if from a deep pit and when he spoke in anger people would take a step back.

His was a face artists dream of, tousled windblown hair swept back from the cliff of his forehead. It was a face eons old, seamed with the experience of all men from the beginning of time. He was born too late was James. Born into a world where man's civilization has encroached on the forest choking nature almost to the brink of her demise. His visage showed this and more, and yet he was not unhandsome.

His eyes were the only kind thing about his countenance and they betrayed his true nature. You were drawn to those eyes, like twin oases on the wasteland of his face and when the mood struck him and a smile emerged from that face, like a sunrise behind a mountain, his eyes would shine with the brilliance of youth. Then his laughter would ring out like the pealing of church bells and you would be swept up and carried along the current of his good cheer. 

Hard work was not unknown to James, nor pain. Calluses populated fingers better suited to a pianist, hands sinewy and strong like the rest of him. His clothes hung on his wiry frame like a ship's sail. 

This is what I remember about James, and now he's dead, but not gone. I can still see him in the ancient trees struggling for existence in the city and his voice rides the wind.




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