Rising (Chapter Thirteen)
“Julia Metcalf Williams gave birth to me, Richard Williams, that night of February 14, 1942. The truth is, but for her strength, and the kindness of a stranger, my mother would have died that night and I would have died within her, left on the side of the road by depraved indifference, racism, and cruelty.
Be we didn’t die. It is now more than seventy years later and I have walked a long road. I fought every hand raised against me in this world and raised my daughters to become the greatest female tennis players who ever lived. I have survived my wounds and prospered mightily. What follows is my story.”
The war is over. No more battles. Not now. As we look upon the scene, we long for peace. War is as it has ever been and will ever be: cruel and devastating. All that is left is the wreck and ruin of an unfulfilled life. The field is silent. The tragedy has unfolded. A young man lies upon the ground; the night is falling fast around him; a tender mother stands by his side; the ruin of an epic mistake is strewn across his face. The painful expression, unnatural beating of the heart, twitching of the flesh, and cords of the neck betray his plight. The evil he contracted in infancy has grown and strengthened with his growth. His eyes are closed, and a mist is seen leaving his face. It is not a breath of life that nurtures and heals; it is dry, agonal, and frail. It is his life's breath which leaks through parted lips that empties his soul. His form is stiff and cool because he is dying. The harsh and wintry wind has done its work.
So long as the world is what it is, so long as there is a sad story to be told, may there be a tender voice to tell the tale, a gentle hand to deal lightly with the unfortunate reality of human sorrow. May there be someone who can think and act as a poet cries.
But his story is unfinished. There is a healing hand that comes at last in the fog of night and fog of death to gently close his lips and shed light on darkness. The snow melts to water, and the air above is green with blooming trees, which will soon cradle him in health; and when summer comes, everyone will see his newfound power and strength. The nervous anxieties of the day will be dismissed. The beauty and loveliness of the world and all of its wonder will be grasped. Fairy tales will once again have their power to charm, telling the story of God and queens. He will see that the fiercest black may be transformed to light and learn that from the sweetest suffering is born the strongest and purest soul.
Yours, too, is an unfinished story. What will you write? It is time to shut up and turn the page to a new life.
Good night.
Chapter Thirteen Conclusion