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21 Sep

The Whittler is cloaked in a weathered; aged, drab London Fog rain coat with a faded feathered fedora hat with holes in it.   And, his feet are encased in black ankle string tied military boots weather raw by over use.   And, he is seated on the stoop of the dilapidated 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 from strokes of his knife.

At first, I did not notice him for he was whittling with a long slicing slitting of a stroke of his knife.

For, I was a young person who was to busy with life’s daily newness of exploration of my new horizons and activities with friends lives.   Like school, friends and exploration of the Magic Mile with it’s adventures along Lisbon Street in Lewiston, Maine.

So, I hardly noticed him and the people, individuals and memories being removed by death, demolition and new fads that were being removed and added to and from my life by his whittling of the post 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 tunes I no longer hear does it concern me and I notice.

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’s are being done with these people and memories how having been removed from my live.

I am now in my Thirties and Forties and the ‘Whittlers’ is carving nearly in moderate quickening 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 requiring cooling.

It is not until lately at age Fifty and Sixty that I have noticed that the Whittler’s is working in an ever quickening pace as the shaving are more rapidly amassing at the bottom near ground level and are almost encompassing his two feet.  And, that the shaving and slivers of pieces of wood are more visible and that piece of the mighty oak wooden 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 forever.

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 post, staff, stick has now 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. Like, Individuals and memories from my life never to be seen or heard from again forever.

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 from; 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, forever and ever.

Boo, hoo hoo hoo