The Gentleman
by Gemma Burnham (age 15)
My life is a rather dull, frustrating one. It’s awfully lonely at times. To put it plainly, no one really ever listens to me. To be sure, I am a little hard to listen to. I don’t say much, and I’m on the quiet side, but oh, the things I want to tell people! If they would just lend a moment, even the briefest moment, they would find themselves in a much better place, just like that gentleman …
I never discovered what his name was, and I’ve only come across him once, so I will refer to him as the Gentleman. His story is a simple one, but one worth telling.
It was a Friday, and I was paying a visit to an old acquaintance. This acquaintance was none other than George Miller, the grown son of the mayor of the town we lived in, who was just recently married to the beautiful maiden Laura Gabesdaughter. George was seated at the dining table, drinking a very strong liquor of sorts. His dull, blue-grey eyes had been staring listlessly out a window for over half an hour. I was standing next to him, my white, gloved hands folded politely in front of me. We were both silent and had been since the time I had walked into George’s home over half an hour ago. With tearful eyes, I watched as he raised the bottle of liquor to his lips and took another swig. He needed to stop. I knew that with every gulp of that horrendous drink, he was dealing another devastating blow to his and Laura’s already shaky relationship. Liquor here in the city was no cheap investment, and the Miller couple had very little money. How many times had I seen Laura yelling at George to stop wasting their money and to start thinking about the life they would have to build around their soon-to-be-born child? To no avail were these sickening episodes. I would always find George back in the same position he was, brooding over the lip of a liquor bottle.
I was waiting for him to take notice, to acknowledge me, to give me a chance to comfort and advise him. I knew George well, however. As long as he brooded and stared, not even a tsunami could grab his attention. How, then, could I? Finally, with a heavy sigh and even heavier heart, I departed from George’s home in silence.
I found myself walking along one of the city’s many small, man-made ponds. It was that ugly green color that stagnant bodies of water always are, reeking of garbage and decaying organic matter. The wind refused to provide relief from the oppressive humidity and stuffiness of the city. The sky was as dark as my mood.
I was deep into a session of pondering the many thoughts that accumulate in a person’s mind when one is troubled. My eyes were fixed on the ground, and if a little, round robin had not called out in the branches of a tree I was passing under, I would never have seen the Gentleman.
The Gentleman was sitting on an old, plastic bench under the tree. He wore a black suit, with a black dress shirt, shoes, tie, and had hair to match the solemn outfit. He was sitting straight, his dark eyes cast out over the pond.
As I drew up next to him, the Gentleman surprised me for a moment. He made eye contact with me and, with a gracious smile that suited his youthful face so pleasantly, he asked in a low, quiet voice, “How do you do, ma’am?”
Oh, how gentle and quiet that voice was! How long it had been since anyone had taken notice of me! I returned the greeting eagerly, then sat down by his side. His greeting had been ever so polite, but there was an unmistakable note of melancholy underlying it.
I asked him how he fared. No, not to be nice. Whenever I ask people how they are, I genuinely wish to know. For then, if they listen hard enough, I can give them advice and a word of comfort. I find it exceedingly aggravating when people say “I’m doing good,” for nine times out of ten, that’s a lie. The Gentleman, however, did not reply at all for a couple of seconds. He shifted on the bench slightly and folded his strong, big hands. Finally, he said, “She was so lovely. My little Marie. Lovely and perfect in every way. Her long, glossy hair, her laughing eyes, her dignified way of holding herself. Never once did she anger me. Never once did she grow frustrated with all my many flaws. In a word, I wasn’t deserving of such a person. Maybe that’s why the Good Lord took her away. She deserved to live among the angels of heaven as opposed to living down on this sinful world with such a poor man as I. Three months was I graced with her delicate presence. Only three months.”
The poor Gentleman covered his tanned face with his hands. I nodded as the short, sorrowful tale drew to an abrupt close. We were both plunged into a deep silence, as I searched for just the right words to ease and comfort such a bedraggled heart as this one. In low tones, I began to talk, and the Gentleman listened. I drew words from the years of wisdom I had stored away in my mind, ready to be presented to anyone who would hear me. Anyone like the Gentleman. The more he listened, the brighter his countenance became. Not bright like the afternoon sun or a blazing fire, but like a dim candlelight burning in the middle of a dark room. His sorrow, inevitably, had not gone away. But he had chosen to stop and listen, to grow quiet. He had given me time to talk, to encourage, to enlighten, to soothe. The Gentleman was silent. Just as I am Silence.
About the Author
Gemma Burnham, age 15 going on 16, loves anything and everything to do with words and stories! When she is not buried within a novel, she can be found pursuing her love of gymnastics and picking the strings of her guitar.
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Image is in the Public Domain. Modified with AI by Veronica McDonald.
