A Nice Young Man

I guessed right off by the fanciful demeanor
and baroque, manicured appearance.

Barbara Streisand albums displayed in the parlor
were a give-away.

He taught special-needs children.

  

His mother left him the estate,

and he transformed it 

into a Bed & Breakfast.

I know men like him 

who fled to the city in their youth, 

liberating themselves from the stranglehold 

of rural intolerance.

Yet here he was:

        fledgling entrepreneur,

       hospice volunteer, 

       director of the Presbyterian choir,

as rooted in the red soil

as the Cottonwood tree that shaded 

my bedroom window.

I wanted to ask why 

a handsome gentleman living alone 

in the dust bowl of America
had not turned his heels 

in search of companionship.

Then he produced a photograph 

of daughter and grandchild.

"The blessed outcome", he declared,
"of an awkward, high-school affair.

Don’t the Lord fashion fortune 

from our folly?"

He excused himself for the evening.

I lingered on the stairwell, 

straightened a crooked picture,

signed the guestbook inscribed

with a verse from the Book of Psalms:

"I praise you because I am fearfully

and wonderfully made;     

marvelous are your works, 

my soul knows it well." 

In the morning, 

he set a table of fresh berries and scones, 

poached eggs, 

coffee,
crème brûlée 

in homemade raspberry sauce.

Our Grandmother, 

for whom we traveled many miles 

to celebrate a birthday,
remarked that our host 

reminded her of the nice young man 

who designed
her home interior remodel.

"You're thinking of Cousin Jerry,"
her sister replied.  

"Such a charming boy he was.

Shame he never married."

**First published in Hole In The Head Review