weathered stone

 “Hey Dad, is that Masonic.” Asked Tina

 

“Yes, sweetheart, good eye.” Replied Harry

 

Harry took a photo of the weathered stone, and stared at it for a moment.

 

He noticed that this Brother, his name now lost to time and the elements, was an Entered Apprentice,  made clear by the markings on the tombstone that any Mason would know; and Harry was a Master Mason.  

 

“Fuck ‘em, I’m still a Mason” Harry mumbled under his breath as he stared at the head stone. 

The brief bout of anger gave way to sadness as Harry brought his focus back to the EA in front of him and began to lightly grieve. 

 

Harry lamented on the fact that this lost Brother never knew the full extent of the ceremonies or rituals,  and on special occasions, the pageantry of being a Master Mason.  Nor did this lost Brother get to hear all the words in those ceremonies and rituals.  Words, that when heard, reflected on, and understood, can help a person find meaning, comfort or direction; words that  can help a man find his moral compass.  Harry missed the words the most, and was saddened that this lost Brother never got a chance to hear them. 

 

“Fuck.’ Harry said, this time loader, his grief returning to anger as he remembered the politics that made him quit the Lodge. 

 

“Dad, I think the Karl Marx tomb is this way.” Tina shouted.

 

“On my way.” 

 

Harry moved on.