Missing Father
Missing Father
Gazing around the library, with its candles burning and reflecting their dim ambiance, that familiar feeling of peace known by all tunnel dwellers is clearly gone. The room beyond is filled with a chill that all of the candles in the world could not banish, even if they were all lit at once. The books once read and held gently in broad hands that cherished the work put into their creation, were dusty and piled upon the shelves. There was no tea steaming in the teapot on the small table. The chess board sat in disuse, its pieces in position to start a game that had been forgotten. The old rocking chair was empty. There was no hushed voice speaking important things to different members of the council. There was no worried voice speaking wisdom to a son. There was no gentle voice reminding the children to not run in the halls. There was no smiling voice reading stories and poems aloud. There was no serious voice conferring with helpers about getting the medical supplies for his friends. There was no authoritative voice calling meetings to order. A cold wind blew through the room beyond, stirring a few cobwebs along the shelves. It was silent. It probably always would be. For how could one replace Father? He was the pillar, the strength, the hands that built Below. His wisdom was immeasurable, his gentleness a rock for his people.
They would go on. They would all take their turns. They would live. They would die. But until then, there was a gaping hole in their world left behind that would never be filled.
In memory of Roy Dotrice, better known as Father to Below
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