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21 Sep

The Whittler, cloaked in a weathered aged drab London Fog rain coat with a faded feathered fedora hat with holes.   And black ankle string tied military boots weather raw is sitting on the stoop of the building next door.

He is whittling as I had suspected and as if he were removing individual people from my life with every long slivering slice and stroke of his knife.

At first, I did not notice him; for he was whittling with a long slicing / slitting of a strokes of his knife. For, I was a young person who was to busy with life’s daily newness of exploration of my horizons and activities friends life; like school, friends and exploration of the Magic Mile with it’s adventures.  So, I hardly notices him and the people, individuals and memories being removed by death, demolition and new fads that were being removed from my life by his whittling of the staff of wood he held in his hand.

For, only if the person was a close relative did I notice the “Whittler” at his work an aunt, uncle, grandparent or building I once lived in being demolished or song tune I no longer hear; does it concern me. And, then again there is my new independent life to be explored; not that, that is an excuse.

At the beginning, I did not realize other persons or memories being removed from my life for it is at a slow rate that the Whittler’s carving work is being done with these people and memories having been removed from my live.

I am now in my Thirty and Forties and the ‘Whittlers’ is carving nearly in slow more progressive motion and in silence obscurity as he sits on the stoop of the building next door doing his deed with feather fedora removed as if his labors were more strained.

It is not until lately at ages Fifty and Sixty that I have noticed that the Whittler’s is working in a quicker pace as the shaving are more rapidly amassing at the bottom near ground level and are almost encompassing his feet.  And that the shaving and slivers of pieces of wood are more visible and that piece of mighty oak wood post he is whittling upon has become shorter from a mighty oak post to a solid four inch staff.  And also that his pace has become more quickened in repetitiveness as pieces of the now stick; like, people and memories are whittled out of my existence never to be seen again.

And, now for myself at age sixty-five (65); I to have quickened and have become more acute to the things I have ignored and must remember and things that I must finish as the Whittler once mighty oak wood, staff, stick has become a twig.

All, this I notice now awhile noticing the ever increasing quickness and repetitiveness of the Whittler’s carving; slicing’s of pieces of wood; individuals and memories from my life never to be seen or heard again.

And, as the reminisces of his whittling work’s begin to fall covering and obscuring his feet and as individuals and memories disappear from my life not to be seen or heard no more forever.  

Who, will know how much longer it will take the Whittler to complete his work his task.   And, than I shall fall as one of his wooden slivering shaving to the bottom of his feet and never to be seen or heard from again.