And then he was an Old Man. It was Darwin’s evolution.
No heralding trumpets. Except for the creaks and pains of joints crying out for Bengay on a cold winter morning.
The PTSD still there. Never fading, yet slowly succumbing to the seasons of his life. He was in winter now.
The old memories and nightmares didn’t stoke fires of anger anymore. Regrets now and then. The disorderly fire dying to embers of sadness. His tears the extinguishing water.
World reality is the beauty of different perspectives — love and death companions.
After seven decades and two years of marathon running, the endless searching became a walk along the beach.
L. Darryl Armstrong 