At Rest (F)

"Sit, son, sit with me."

"As you wish, my--yes, father."

"This cool air deceives us. Summer's heat will come."

"And our crops will grow and the herds will fatten."

"True enough. So what did you do today as Prince, my son?"

"I studied at our accounts for the northern estates."

"And?"

"All seemed in order."

"Good. What did you do today as my son?"

"I am your son now. Sitting here--sitting in Mother's favorite spot. She would say to look at the highest point and bring my eyes down slowly, taking in the trees blooming, down to flowers and vines, down to the grasses, down to the smallest stones that are the path."

"Your mother was a great person."

"You miss her? Very much?"

"I miss her as my queen. I miss her as my spouse. As a man, I miss her the more so."

"You must know, Father, how Lady Bankston--"

"Stop."

"I'm sorry, Father, but--"

"No more. Tell me, what did you do as a man today?"

"As a man? Today I was Prince of the Realm. Now, with you I am a son."

"Do not neglect to think of yourself as you view yourself. Always a prince is a prince is a prince, and though I love you as my son, you are more a man than you are my son."

"Are you more a man than a king? More a man than a father?"

"A hard question. I feel less a king and more a man. I even more a father and less a king. I will be your father to the end, but to be king to the end I can not say."

"You are weary, Father?"

"Yes, the right word, weary."

"But you are a strong king, beloved--"

"Even so."

"You are in good health?"

"Yes, yes."

"Think of all you have built, you will be venerated for all time."

"Ah, perhaps in some way the stones will speak for me. My tomb, a silent reminder. But for me, dust from dust, dust to dust, the dust endures until carried away by the slightest whisper of the wind. I daresay your children's children will scamper over my tomb as if no more than a barnyard fence or a low rock wall dividing a sheep pasture from the cornfields.

"Here, look at this handful of gravel. I will be gone long before feet grind this to dust."

"Perhaps, true enough. But no poets will sing the legacy of these little stones."

"Son, no poets will sing the man. Who dines with us tonight?"

"Just Sister, you and I."

"Perhaps she will allow me a little more wine then."

"A great hope to cling to, Father."

Lyman 2024