It was fall. The leaves had fallen and left traces of their old forgotten roots in the mailboxes. The sticky taste of summer had begun to wane and the smell of freedom seemed long lost. It was the season of upheaval, of constant and great change. Death held its presence. And it never seemed more present than now.
Does time heal all wounds? The young boy strived to ask the long paintings in every hallway. He dried his tear stained eyes with closed fists and a stern jaw but his hands could not help but tremble as they shook his visitors. They came sparsely, armed with stories of past and awkward pity. They seemed to stare at him more intensely, searching for pain and sadness. Grief was swirling within, shaping his every movement. It had not yet risen so far to the surface but he looked for ghosts at every corner. When death showed its face, you were either in pain or in denial at its consequences. No one would ever argue neither. He tried to hide, but how could he be so rude to those that merely offer their kindness? No matter that they reminded him of his losses.
Does time heal all wounds? He forgot to ask that at the grave when he visited. The boy was now shaping into a man that was stern, not gentle, ambitious, yet lacked progression. He seemed to reflect his childhood, or lack thereof. Hollow on the inside but possessed all the qualities of resilience that came easy to those that were young. His anger at the world did not grow dimmer with the passing of years and only enlarged tenfold at birthdays, anniversaries and graduation. So warped it had become that he had long forgotten the source. It had narrowed so far that he only knew his fingers, his name, his age and his anger. Its power stemmed to his head as his tempting fantasies had no dictator, no tormentor to sneer at, free to take root and grow. The passing of years had not healed his wounds.
Does time heal all wounds, he asked again as monotony had set in. He grew more frustrated at the world, at new contraptions and destruction of records. The man seemed to chase ghosts in the grocery line, haunted at every turn by families and children. His evenings consisted of meals for one and a tantalizing conversation with the television. Relationships were a forbidden disease that he must stay away from, so plagued by death that it still loomed over his every move. He had forgotten his anger altogether but it still lingered in his choices. It seemed to always will.
Does time heal all wounds? His children now asked. They read the same books as those past, he saw the same creases in their eyes. They laughed the same but it didn't hurt at all. It was more a twinge, gnawing away at him but never enough to complicate. His younger years seemed like a lifetime ago, that sad picture of a boy entrapped by mourners at every turn and willed the world to quiet. His grief would always be there, it would never truly go away. So at last, he felt at peace enough to have an answer.
Not completely. But just enough.