GIDEON

Gideon growled happily. There was a time, in a previous life, when happiness would make him laugh, but he barely remembered those days. Today he sat still as stone watching children play as the day’s light dimmed to dusk. He admired their energy and abandon. He could never venture out of his shell that way. 

Distant notes plucked from a guitar drifted past, evoking pale memories of his younger self wooing a lovely lady. He remembered the breeze toying with her hair and the way she lifted her hand to her mouth when she laughed. And when she touched him he lit up as though a thousand suns were burning within him. 

When she agreed to become his wife he rejoiced. The entire village was invited to share their joy. And when they later learned that they had begotten a baby, there was no limit to their happiness.

As the birth drew near and the pain grew worse, his wife assured him that she loved him and that all would be well. But alas, she died, as did the child, leaving Gideon alone.

There was no comfort for him in anything. He grew quieter and quieter, stiller and stiller. After a while he ceased to move or speak at all, a thick protective wall slowly growing to encase him. And he never laughed again.  

Now, here he sits, able only to watch and hear life being lived, joy but a seldom seen memory. And he growls in what he thinks is happiness.

Inspired by this photo taken by Brin Jackson.