Print of a Man

I had walked out of the bush an old man. How Old, I did not know? The years had passed without the need to celebrate the remembrance of a birth date. There was something familiar about the place. I noticed a man rocking lazily on an open porch. The old man resembled the face I have when I gaze at my own reflection. We pause and stop, our eyes studying each and every feature of the other. He is familiar; I search my memory for names to place with the face before me. He seems satisfied that after consideration, he has placed a name to my face. I have not placed a name to suit his likeness. 'Thomas?' 'Yes, I am Thomas Chapais.' 'Thomas, I am . . . Nicolas.' Two old men stood there dumb-founded with nothing to say but to repeat each other's name with favour, contempt, anger, sadness and an undying love that only kinship knows. Without an embrace, nor a handshake we bonded as brothers need to. Our eyes were reluctant to gaze away for fear of the image disappearing.