Tuesday, November 29, 2016

Sober-Part 2- They Reply

You don’t want me anymore?
You sniveling little wimp!
I own you
Don’t you see?

How many Day One’s
Have there been?
How many more
Will you declare?
How many times did you fall?
…Fail?

You always return
Because…
I own you
Can’t you see?

Don’t look away
I will be here for you
I will ease the pain
I will soothe the sorrows

You don’t want me anymore?
Quiet
Listen to your heart
A pulse of anticipation
You need me
Now you see

Come closer
Remember my bitter-sweet taste
Hold me in your hand
Lift me to your lips
Taste me
I will take you where you need to be
Forever with me

I own you

Sober

This is hard to say…
I don’t want you anymore
Yet, I tremble at the thought
You have been here
It seems forever
You kept every promise
You satisfied every need
I don’t want you anymore
When my world crumbled
You took hold of my hand
When I held my breath
Demanding to die
You whispered lies of hope
We danced dreams together
I don’t want you anymore
I close my eyes
And suck your bitter-sweet essence
Slowly you reduce me
You take me away
I don’t want you anymore
Tomorrow will break
And you will be gone
A fresh beginning
A Day One
I don’t want you anymore

Sunday, November 27, 2016

The Tree Angel

“Why is he so sad?”
“It is Christmas Eve and his home is empty.” The old elfin replied.

The little one reached his small hand into the silver music box, his tiny fingers caressing the enchanted mirror set into the polished lid. The Christmas melodies had gone mute.

“No one is coming?” The smallest elf asked.
“Oh, they will be there tomorrow. But tonight, he is alone. That is why he is sad. For thirty years, each Christmas Eve, children have sat in a circle around the tree. There they would wait…”
“It is a beautiful tree!” The wee one offered.
“Yes, it is. But he has no one to finish it.”

The little elf leaned in closer, carefully inspecting the old man’s home.
 “Where are they?” He wondered aloud.
“His children? They have all grown up. The youngest just set out to start her own family. Some have moved far away, others not so far. But now, they have their own children, their own families, and their own traditions.”
The tiny elf looked up, “I don’t understand. What is grown up?”

Saint Nick smiled, “People aren’t like you and me. They change. In the beginning, they are quite tiny. Smaller than you.” He playfully patted the other on top of his head. “And when they are still little, filled with hope and laughter...they believe! But the day will come when they are no longer little and sadly, they no longer believe." He paused, looking into the music box, "All of his children have grown up.”
“They don’t believe?” The small one asked.
The old elf did not reply.

“What are transitions?” He asked.
“Traditions.” He corrected. “Can you still see the tree?”
“Uh-huh.”
“It is wonderful, but it is not finished. The top of tree is bare. Can you see the box he is holding?”
The elf nudged the silver music box with the palm of his hand. The image of the unfinished Christmas tree faded; quickly replaced by a new one; an old man, sitting in a deep, worn-out chair. He looked so glum. On his lap was a brown box, its edges no longer sharp, and a small hollow in one end.
“What’s in the box?” He asked.

Nicholas picked up the tiny elf and sat him on his knee. As the old elf spoke,the silver music box chimed a Christmas melody. The mystical mirror changed again; this time a home, crowded with laughing children filled the frame. The aroma of sugar cookies floated on the air.

“An angel. A beautiful angel. She wears a long gown, white as Christmas snow. Her wings are also white, trimmed in wool so soft the clouds would be envious. The top of the tree has belonged to her every Christmas for thirty years. Each year, the man in the chair, he is the father, would gather his children in a circle and tell them the story of the first Christmas. And when he was finished, he would slowly stroll around the circle, holding the box in his big hands, singing “Who will it be? Who will it be this year?” Then he suddenly stops, touching the nearest child on their shoulder. And then gently, he would place the beautiful angel in their tiny hands. Then he would lift them up high! High above the top of the great tree. From below, he would watch as the lucky child carefully placed the angel. All the other children would cry out in glee.”

The old elfin paused, remembering Christmas’ past.
“It was their tradition.” He added.

“And now he has no one to help him?” The little elf cried.
“It was never about helping. He could have placed the angel with no care. It was about family. It was about sharing. It was about being together. About love. It was…tradition.”
The little elf reached out, first smoothing the great white beard of the old elf, and then wiping away his tears.

Closing the music box, the red clad elf with the long white beard, stood up, "I have much to do," he said, "after all, it is Christmas Eve."

The tiniest elf sat alone, the silver box held in his lap. Visions of lonely rooms and trees without angels danced before him.
 “ I hope I never grow up.” He followed Saint Nick into the night.

Thursday, November 24, 2016

The Un-Wish Bone

Delicious Thanksgiving aromas still filled the home. The Christmas tree had been adorned with a handful of shiny metallic balls; a string of lights, still unraveled, waited patiently for someone to wrap their length around her waist. Football was on the television but their father had turned down the sound. They knew that was not a good sign.

The twins stood next to the dining table, heads bowed; all of their effort being consumed to avoid meeting the fox-like stare of their father. The once beautiful crystal decanter lay shattered on the tile floor; a light bouquet of very expensive brandy mixed with the Thanksgiving aromas. On the grand table, was a small white plate, the edges trimmed in Christmas green and gold. In the center of the plate, a wishbone, all that remained of the fifteen-pound turkey.

“I know I heard your mother ask you both to stop running. Now if I heard her, certainly you also heard her.” He paused, longer than required; a dramatic effect, or so he believed. “You did hear her, correct?”

“Yes sir.” The twins responded in perfect sync.
“I thought so. Now, why didn’t you listen?” Another pause, this one shorter. “That decanter belonged to your grandmother; it is very special to your mother.”
“Mom said I could have the wishbone this year. But she,” he turned to look at his sister, offering his best nine-year old, “you’re in big trouble” look, “tried to get it before I could. And it doesn’t belong to her!”

The girl stood silently, still reading the tile floor.

Their father picked up the v-shaped bone from the plate. Holding it up to the light he appeared to study it very carefully. His smile hidden from his children by the exaggerated tilt of his head.

“Wishes granted.” He said. “Wishes. More than one. Did you know that?” He asked.
In perfect harmony, a whispered “No, sir.”
“So, you each take a side, make a wish, and pull. You will also need to apologize to your mother. Is that understood?”

Without waiting for his children to answer, he returned to the living area. A moment later the sounds of the football game could be heard once again.

Patrick glared at his sister. Patricia smiled at her brother. Words, thankfully were not exchanged. Tiny hands, one of his, the other hers, reached for the wishbone.
Patricia, or Trish her preferred nickname, closed her eyes, “I wish, I wish for a Barbie playhouse, filled with all the finest furniture and lights that really work”

Patrick, he did not like nicknames, closed one eye, sneaking a peak at his sniveling sister before closing the other, “I wish, I wish…she was never born!”

“Patrick! Patrick, what are you doing? Have you fallen asleep standing up?” Gisela’s familiar accent entered the room, followed by the sounds of her heavy footsteps tapping across ceramic tile.

The boy opened his eyes. The plump German housekeeper stood next to him, the aroma of apple pie floated up from her flour covered apron. The sound of seventy-thousand fans cheering for their football team was coming from the family room. A mirror hung in the passageway, reflected the tall Noble Fir, decorated from stem to stern, thousands of tiny lights dancing to a song only heard by them. An angel resting, as she has done every year, on the very top. On the grand table, a crystal decanter filled to the slender neck with an expensive brandy. A small white plate with green and gold trimmings, held an unbroken wishbone; the only companion to the crystal decanter.

Patrick looked around the room, confused. “Where is Trish?” He asked.

Wer?” Gisela asked.

“Patricia! My sister! Where is she?”

The little German woman laughed, “The baby is not due to arrive until spring. Your hopes for a baby brother? Where have those gone?’ She laughed again.

 I wish she was never…

Patrick bounded up the staircase with the speed and agility reserved for nine-year old boys. Running down the long hallway, he could see the closed door to Trish’s room. He placed his ear upon the door and listened. Nothing. He tapped lightly. Nothing. He opened the door—

Patricia’s room was gone. Her princess white canopy bed had been replaced by a white crib, a baby’s crib. A matching changing table sat across from the crib; Patrick did not know what this strange looking table was for. A mobile, with colorful, dancing unicorns, suspended from the ceiling, was the only other occupant of his twin sister’s room.
Where are her things? Her toys?

Patrick ran back down the hallway. He stopped suddenly, his shoes screeching loudly in protest. The portrait that hung on the wall was different. The painting was from last Christmas; the family had stood together in front of the large fireplace as the artist worked her magic across the canvass. His father, his mother, stood in the back, smiles on their faces. In front of them stood…Patrick.

I wish she was never…

Gisela was sitting at the head of the grand table. A cup of hot coffee had joined the decanter and small white plate.
He looked at the little woman, “Gisela, I did something bad.” A tear escaped.

“I know, mein schatz.

He sat down, “How?”

“I heard your wish.” She said. “I was afraid you may be wishing me away.”

“I would never do that.” Patrick replied, a second tear falling away.

“But this Trish? You wished her away?”

“Yes.” He whispered.

“She was your sister?”

“My twin sister.” He answered the woman. “What am I going to do?”

Gisela put one stubby finger on the edge of the white plate, pushing it gently across the polished table. Patrick looked at the wishbone. He did not want to touch it. He would never touch another wishbone!

“Do not fret.” She said as if reading his young mind. “A wishbone cannot undo a wish. A wish is forever. Do you know where wishes granted go?” Gisela pushed the small plate a little closer to the edge of the grand table.

“No.” Patrick replied.

“Nor do I. No one knows. You see, that is why wishes are forever. They are in a place that no one can penetrate. Nothing can bring them harm. You should have been more careful with your wish.”

The sound of a cheering crowd came from the family room. Patrick heard his father release a moan; the other team must have scored.

“What will I tell my parents?” He asked Gisela.

“There is no need to tell them anything. They never knew of your sister. You wished her away—before she was ever born.”

He had lost command over his tears, they streamed down his face, landing on the small white plate that now sat in front of him. “What am I going to do?” He asked again.

“My Opa. My grandfather, he once told me of a wayward wish he had made as a child. His wish brought him much sadness…like yours. But he knew what to do.” She waited.

Sitting up straight, “What did he do?”

“Does it matter to you, Patrick. Your wish was granted. Your sister is no more.”

“But I want her back! Please tell me what he did.”

Frau Gisela picked up the small wishbone, holding the bottom of the V between her thumb and index finger. Patrick had never noticed how small her hands were.
“My Opa knew the secret.”

“Secret?” the boy asked.

“Ja, the secret on the Un-wish Bone.” She whispered the last words carefully.

Patrick Goode looked at the woman he had known all his life; all nine years. Was she telling him the truth? Or was she making up another tale? When he and Trish (not Trish!) were small, Gisela would tell magical tales each night before their tiny eyes closed.
He decided a challenge was in order, “Did he tell you this secret?”
She nodded.

“Please tell me.” He asked her with tremor.

She placed the wishbone against her heart. “You must hold it like this.” With her other hand, she pointed to the position of the wishing bone. “The true feelings of your heart will fill the wishbone’s V. Leaving it close to your heart, you must close your eyes. Then gently pull, but do not break the bone, the true feelings would escape." She warned. " And then count to three, eins, zwei, drei. And then make your un-wish.”
Patrick looked at her round face, looking for signs of truth

Was sind die wahren Gefühle des Herzens?”
“What?” he asked.
“What are the true feelings of your heart, Patrick?”

He peered into the family room. He saw the Christmas tree standing in the mirror’s image. He heard his mother and father talking, saying something about the holidays. The sounds of the football game had been replaced by Christmas music.

“I want her back.I want my sister back.” He said.

Gisela placed the wishbone into his waiting hands. Patrick slowly pressed the bone against his chest, looking to the little German woman for her approval. She nodded and smiled.

Patrick closed his eyes.
“Do I count to three aloud?” He asked, eyes popping open.
A warm smile, a gentle nod.

Closing his eyes again, “One…two…three.”

Patrick Goode opened his eyes. 

Saturday, November 12, 2016

White Out

I am so cold.
I think my toes may be frozen. I lost one of my shoes. I can’t find it. I will probably lose my toes. That’s what they do you know, you get frostbite, fingers or toes, they just chop them off like it’s no big deal.  I guess it won’t matter if I am dead; chop away Doc, I won’t be needing them.

I should have stayed with the car, but I could smell gasoline. I thought it would catch on fire, maybe blow up like in the movies. That would have lit up the whole damn sky. Somebody would have seen it. Somebody would have come.

Fire would be good now, I’m freezing. All I could think to do was to crawl away from the car. It was upside down, laying on its back, tires spinning in the cold night air. I could smell the gas, so I crawled away. I crawled away…all alone.  I tried to stand up, but I couldn’t. I was dizzy from a blow to my head, it was bleeding, and the blood was running down my face, getting in my eyes and my mouth. It tasted terrible. I don’t know what hit my head, but it must have been hard or sharp because the bleeding wouldn’t stop. When it finally did, I think it's because it's so cold, too cold to bleed. I don’t know if that happens, I suppose it could; everything else is frozen or slowing down. I tried to feel my pulse, you know, in case my heart is slowing down. My gloves prevent me from finding my pulse. Thank God I have my gloves—I can’t lose my toes and fingers. I am cold and a little scared now. I don’t even have to piss, and it’s been two, maybe three days; I know this can’t be good. My beards frozen too, I can feel the ice on it, it feels kinda cool.

The gasoline, I could almost taste it too. I tried to run away but I just fell on the frozen ground. I crawled…I crawled through the snow, I kept crawling until I couldn’t smell the gas anymore. I crawled on my belly and then on my elbows and knees; like a baby crawling after a ball.

I threw the ball; I remember that now. We were in a big room, a warm room. There was a fire in the room, in the fireplace…that was nice. And there was a tree, a Christmas tree lit up by hundreds of tiny flashing lights, red, green and blue, blinking off and on, over and over. I need to see flashing lights now, not on a tree but on rescue car. But I don’t think anyone is coming. The ball was spongy, the size and color of a Red Delicious apple. I threw the ball over the baby’s cute little head so he would crawl after it. He made me laugh. I can’t remember if the baby was mine. That made me cry.

It is so cold. If I could get back to the car, then maybe I could get warm. It has been snowing since the accident; two, maybe three days. I don’t know for sure, the nights are so long this time of the year. I think I saw the sunrise twice and I may have slept through another. It must be nighttime now because it is so cold. The tall pines cover most of the sky, their branches heavy with fresh snow. No blinking lights on these trees. The snow covers everything. I can’t be sure of which way to go. I can no longer see my tracks in the snow.

The headlights were on; even as the car lay upside down with the tires spinning, the lights stayed on. If I could see the lights then I can find the car. And then I could turn on the emergency blinkers and someone would see them from the road. They would send for help. They would pull me out of this frozen ravine and give me a blanket and some coffee, maybe some dry clothes. They would ask me what happened, and how I survived out here, alone, in the cold. I must get to the car; I must turn on the flashers. Then I will be warm, everything will be good. I must, I must. I must. I hope.

Were you alone?

I can’t stand up. The pain in my foot is too much. The frostbite hasn’t finished devouring my flesh; there would be no feeling, no pain, if it had already finished its happy meal.

I don’t think I was alone.

But there is pain, excruciating, knock you on your ass pain. It doesn’t matter anyway. It has been three (or two) days; the car’s battery dead. The emergency lights won’t work. The 2014 Ford Mustang, bought and almost paid for, red as the baby’s toy ball,  is dead.

I will be next. I am so cold.

You left them there!

I rolled over onto my belly. I think it must be a little smaller now. Maybe when I get back I will write a new diet book- How to lose belly fat while freezing to death. I laugh. The night inhales the sound; all is quiet again. I push forward using only my left foot; the pain in my other is too great. Elbows pressed against the frozen soil, I pull myself in the direction I pray is true.

Two inches. That’s all. I moved two damn inches! How far from the car had I ran before passing out? It could not have been that far—I was bleeding and afraid—mix those with the left over effects of a couple of scotch and sodas…

It can’t be that far away. But two inches? Seriously? This will take forever. I can’t make it unless I stand and try to hobble to the car. But I need to rest first. My frozen breath fills the air with a glistening fog. I am breathing so hard. Two friggin inches and I am winded! Too many burgers, too many cigars, too much scotch. Let me just catch my breath and then I will stand up. I will...I will work through the pain. That's what I will do. I will work through the pain.
I need to get to the car or I am going to die.
The car can’t be too far away. I remember hearing…

Crying. The baby was crying. You left them there!

Oh, my God! My family. The baby, my wife. They were in the car with me. We were coming back from her company Christmas party; we had just picked up the baby from the sitter’s. She said the baby could stay the night; don’t worry about him, she said. Have a good time.  We did. I only had two drinks. Maybe three. But he's too young to stay the night. My wife said she would drive, but I wouldn’t let her—she doesn’t see good at night. I could drive, I only had like four drinks, that’s nothing.

You left them in the car!

There was something in the road. I don’t know, something in the road. There was too much white. I couldn’t see, blinding white light. Snow falling. White everywhere. The wipers couldn’t keep up with the fall. She told me to slow down. The white was blinding. A white out.

I lost control. I lost control because I was trying to miss whatever was in the road. The car started to slide and I…I…I didn’t know what to do. I lost control of the car and it tumbled down, crashing into the ravine. I climbed out through the front, where the windshield is supposed to be. I fell in the snow, hitting my head on a fallen tree branch. It hurt so bad. The snow turned red. Red like his little ball.
I could smell gasoline. I started to run. The car was going to blow up. So, I ran. But I fell again. That’s when I heard him. He was crying. He was crying, “Daddy, daddy!” He was crying.

You left them! Coward! You are a drunken coward!

I left them in the car…in the freezing night…I left them. He was crying. He doesn’t know. He was afraid and he was crying. And I left them.

It’s so cold.
I must stand up. I must get back to the car. I should help them. Yes, that’s what I will do. I will help them. I promise you God, I will help them. I will never take another drink, God... I will hold him. Hush little baby, no more crying…daddy's here...

It’s been three days. They are dead. You left them and now they are dead.

No! I have to get to them; I can do it. I can find them. I scream as the pain streaks up my leg and into my groin. Tears are falling from my eyes. The pain…

He was crying too. Just like you. Just... like... Daddy.

I can. They are in the car. They need me.

Or maybe…

I waited.

Or maybe they left you.

I am so cold.

Wednesday, November 2, 2016

The Book

This pain. I fear should I touch it; the fierceness would burn away the flesh of my fingertips.The supreme brilliance would be blinding, should my eyes fall upon its face. All sounds would forever cease if I came too nigh to Pain’s rhythmic cadence.
This pain.

Six decades have passed since I spilled from the womb; gasping for my first breath as the woman who would be my mother inhaled her last. I have diligently traveled the roads life delivered; dealt to me by whatever powers dictate our fate.  Not unlike an obedient servant, I climbed hundreds, nay… thousands of mountains; I entered, without pause, into the darkest bends; I descended naively into valleys that were laden with sharp edges. Yet my obedience is honored only with—pain.

Pain is not a stranger to me. I have felt the pain that comes with a flowering youth, devoid of a mother. I survived the pain of embarrassment that poverty delivers to her captured denizens. I recall the dark pain that accompanies harsh illness. I have shared the pain that belongs to others, the ones that I have loved. And I have cried at the pain of loss. None of these alone, nor if you were to bind them together as one, hurl them at me with the strength of Kratos, would compare to the pain that grips my soul this night.

The room is almost dark, a small shaded lantern providing the only light. I sit in my old chair, alone in my old house. I look down at my old body; searching for the nucleus of the pain. I cannot find it for it is not there. It is everywhere. I cannot isolate it, for Pain’s cascade is to great. For a moment, I think it must radiate from my gut, but then it moves—creeping to my heart, and then to my head. It is everywhere. I reach up, trying to stop Pain, my hand touches my cheek; it is wet. Pain laughs.

“It is only a book.” She told me. “Look around, you have hundreds of them.”

She’s incorrect. I passed “hundreds” years ago. The walls of my home are covered with shelves. The shelves are filled with books. The books are…
It is never only a book! Most assuredly true of this one. The one that is now gone.

“Maybe you lost it.” She said.

She doesn’t know anything about me; after all these years, her ignorance bewilders me. I am quite certain she has forgotten that she was the one that gave me the book. Two years ago, it was gift, for Christmas…I think. Now I am the one forgetting. That happens frequently as of late. Pain confuses without affinity. Yet, as certain as I am of her forgetfulness, and my own, I can assure you, I did not lose my book!

 It was Christmas; I remember now. Nothing more than a small stocking stuffer; maybe that’s why she doesn’t remember giving the book to me.

“I think you are getting too upset about a book.” She scolded.

It was more than a book. If I close my eyes I can see the soft cover hiding the cream colored pages. A moment passes, eyes still shut; it is as if the small book were now resting upon my palms, I can feel it. The cover has the sensation of fine leather, but it isn’t. I know it came from culled stock; she had no money then; to be so extravagant would not have been possible. But that does not matter to me.

Behind my closed eyes I stare at the gift. The color was a gentle flaxen, just like her hair, when she had been small enough to bounce on my lap. I turn the book in my hands, remembering. There are no words written on the cover, nor on the spine. The book’s backside is also absent of expression. Fearing I would lose this image, I turn the small knob on the lamp, extinguishing its light, without opening my eyes. I pray the dark will bring sleep. Pain creeps away when I sleep. But I am aware of God’s prior stubbornness in answering this simple request. I suspect tonight it will be repeated.

Minutes fade quickly away. Sleep will not come. I open my eyes, greeting the darkness like the old friend it has become. A light frost settles upon all my senses, allowing memories to become unencumbered. Through the blackness I gaze at that past Christmas morning; she’s not watching as I remove the book from the scarlet stocking; they, the boy and girl, siblings with so much in common, are busily unwrapping the gifts found under the evergreen tree. They giggle like little children; sitting amidst the meager selection of boxes wrapped in colored foils on this Christmas morning. Meager, yet twice as plentiful as the last dozen Christmastides. My eyes move from my children to the small book resting in my hands. Lifting it close to my face, I inhale its sweet fragrance. Slowly I open the cover—the pages are blank, pure as Christmas snow.

Does she know?

I had not told them of the visit to the doctor; there was no cause to do so. He told me that the dementia would progress slowly at first…hopefully. He could sight cases that reaffirmed his prognosis, but was also compelled to share the stories of the disease’s ability to rapidly progress. He has been my friend longer than my physician; I believe on that morning, he may have been speaking as a friend.

Only a few months passed before memory loss became more apparent, not to them, only to me. It was minor things; they would not have been aware of anyway; where had I put my razor, what day of the week was it?

I returned to his office. He offered nothing new, only fresh advice. “You should journal your thoughts. Write down the things that are important to you… things that are too precious to forget. You will need a way to keep your memories.”
I left my friend’s office with the intentions of adhering to his advice.  I walked down the road to the Woolworth’s, I would purchase a journal; a Memory Keeper. It was welcomed advice, “…too precious to forget.” 

Inside the store, decorated with red and green garland and signs announcing the coming season, I could not find a journal. I left after making a small purchase, a dozen Eberhard Blackwing 602 pencils. Soon, I would travel to the next town; I remembered seeing journals at the book store I often visited there. By the next day, I had forgotten his advice. I couldn’t remember why I had bought the pencils; they sat on my nightstand, unopened, until that Christmas day.

Pain has returned. Its grip tears at my soul. I should light the lantern. Do something, anything to stop thinking about the book. But I can’t…it is all I had…it is all I was.

I close my eyes again. Christmas morning turned into Christmas day. Snow is falling. After filling their bellies with waffles and sweet cream, they tell me of their plans to go caroling with their school friends. She asks me if I would like to come. I decline, I tell her that a frog should never sing in a crowd. They laugh and scamper out the door, leaving the floor covered in discarded and crumbled Christmas foil. I will clean it later, but first there is something I must do.

I open the package of Blackwing 602 pencils and sharpen two with a penknife. On the first page of the faux-leather journal, I write the words—Memory Keeper. For the next three hours, I wrote my words, my memories, on the pages of this most precious Christmas gift. Each day that has passed since, before my head rested upon my pillow, I recorded a memory on the cream-colored pages.

Until three days ago. That is when she took my book.

My desire was to record my memories of life with my children. I began by telling them about their birth. They came into the world only moments apart. I wrote about their first words. I wrote about the times I made them cry and the times they made me cry. I told them about their mother. She died before their third birthday; they can’t remember her without sharing my memories. I wrote about past Christmas mornings when there was little under the tree and waffles were served without sweet cream. I shared a father’s memory of the sadness I felt when I couldn’t provide more, and of the pride I felt when they never showed disappointment.

As the months passed and my illness slowly progressed it became difficult to reach back in time and find memories to record in my journal. They were there, the memories. But they are cloaked in a fog that confuses. Sometime I see them but think it is a memory that must belong to someone else. I thought I should perhaps write of each new day’s events, but my short-term-memory (words spoken by my doctor), faded as quickly as those of the past. By noon on some days, I could not remember what I had for breakfast. Sometimes I couldn’t remember if I had breakfast. My children, now almost young adults, did not seem to notice; even when their names momentarily escaped into another world. I had learned that senility is possible with dementia; thankfully I seemed to only suffer the memory loss. At least I hope so. If I did something that might be considered senile…well, I don’t remember it.

In those times that I could not write, I would read my own memories. I took note that some had been repeated; perhaps those were the good ones. A few days ago, I turned to the last few pages of the small flaxen journal, now stained with the oils from my hands and coffee from my mug. On these last few pages, someone had written gibberish. It made no sense at all. I cried. Someone had stolen the last canvases I have. No more memories can be written. I wanted to tear the butchered pages out of the journal and throw them into the fire. I am afraid if I do the other pages will fall away, taking my memories with them.

“I think you are getting too upset about a book.” She scolded.

She must have read it. She must have seen the gibberish and thought I wrote it. That’s why she stole my book.

Oh, dear God, please make this pain stop.

“Maybe you lost it.” She said.
“Maybe you stole it!” I answered.

That was three days ago. I think.
She won’t come back. She won't talk to me. I shouldn’t have said it. She’s my little girl.

I hope she will bring my book back to me. If you see her, will you ask her?  My memories of my children are written on the pages. I should tell her that, maybe she will give me my book back. She would like my children; they were my everything. I hope she brings them back. Then the pain will go away.

This pain.
I touch my cheek; it’s wet.
I think I will just sit here and wait a little longer

Maybe the memories will come.

Tuesday, September 20, 2016

Beautiful Dying

Excerpt from "Beautiful Dying"

Bars at closing time are a sad place to be, if you happen to still be there. Either a good time is coming to an end too soon or it never came at all. If I thought there was a cry-in-your-beer song on the old Wurlitzer I might have fed my own quarters into the slot. Not because of my good time theory, but because I knew this would be my last Saturday night in Finnegan’s Rock.
And then a small wisp of hope landed in my life.
“I’m sorry about your wife.” She said.
“Thank you.”
“I still don’t understand, you know, the dying beautiful thing.”
I lit another cigarette and offered her one. She declined.
“It’s beautiful dying.” I said. “Not dying beautiful.”
She waited.
How much more did I want to say?
“Dying is something we can’t control. It is going to happen to every one of us, probably when we least expect it. Even when battling a terrible illness, on our backs in a hospital bed, we don’t always believe we are going to die. We hold onto to an unraveling thread of hope, while a caring nurse delivers our nourishment through a feeding tube. That kind of dying is not beautiful, it’s ugly.”
“Are you dying?” She whispered.

“No.” I smiled at her. “I’ve already done that.”

Beautiful Dying available at Amazon

Saturday, September 3, 2016

A Faith Walk

Last September, around this time, I made a visit to see my cancer Doc. I was one year removed from his diagnosis and two months removed from the chemo-treatments; anxiously looking forward to his latest report. I hoped that I would hear those two magically delicious words— “cancer free”. Instead I settled for two different words, good words, but not those hoped for— “in remission”.

Since then I have visited him on a regular schedule, each time hoping my ears would delight with the words I longed for. But they did not come. I could call him stubborn, an opinion I have carefully formed over time. But I suppose the truth is more along the lines, dutifully so, of his clinical observations; but that doesn’t roll of the tongue as satisfyingly as “stubborn”.

So I live “in remission”. I have experienced two minor setbacks recently when the cancer Doc, after some routine blood tests, hesitated to even say “in remission”. Thankfully, each time I only had to deal with a little scare, nothing more than that.

This has not been a pleasant journey. Sleepless nights, pain, losses; all elements of a cancer trip. But I sit here, almost 59 years old, living and breathing…and those are good things. Yet deep down inside there is a great unsettling taking form. It hurts. You see my friend, the one thing that as not weathered this storm very well is my faith.

I must be clear—I do not refer to my faith in Christ as our Savior—that shall never be compromised. I fear my faith that has been bruised, is that in the goodness of God. Oh, I know about trials, tribulations and suffering as part of our Christian walk. I have studied them and taught about them for many years now. I have experienced them, before and after my bout with cancer. The goodness of God that I have begun to question, the faith that has been bruised, is the goodness that He can cast upon all of humanity.

I look at the world differently today than I did two years ago. Some of my outermost vision has been blurred by my condition—in other words, my faith. Mysteriously my vision has also somehow improved with what could be deemed laser focus on the conditions that surround us all; and it appears to me that we are living in a godless world.

For so long I have believed, had faith, that God would win in the end and we would be the better for it. Suddenly I am not so sure. As I lay in my bed at night I often wonder if God has just moved on. He knows how all this will end, he is the Author, the Creator. So why not just wait in the wings until man utterly destroys all evidence of Him, and then He will come and clean up the mess. With my head on my pillow I imagine God saying— “Let them have their ways, their free will, their sins.” “They no longer have faith in Me,” God says…”to Hell with them!”

Now I cry to Him. “Stand up,” He says. “Go and find what you think you have lost.”

So I will.

Next year, God willing, I will reach the mark of 60 years on this earth. Around that time, I will tie up my Nike's and begin a walk—a faith walk. I don’t yet know where this walk will take me. Nor do I know how far or for how long I will walk. I have much preparation to do before I begin down the highways.

My plan, simple so far, is to walk and look for my faith. To see it in the country side, the small towns, in the lives of people that I run across. I believe it is there...somewhere. God would not tell me to seek that which is no longer there, I am quite certain of that.

I will keep you up to date as my Faith Journey develops. Maybe I will see you along they way.

Oh yes, I could use your prayers…

Tuesday, August 30, 2016

For which it stands

Old Glory. She has a story to tell each time she is hoisted above our heads. America’s history can be found in every stitch that weaves through her colors of red, white and blue. An anthem was written about this star spangled banner that refuses to retreat under the threats of enemies. Enemies far and near. Each morning, for almost one hundred years, before they begin their studies, our children have pledged allegiance to her glory, to the Flag of the United States of America.
Innocent children, some too young to understand, pledge allegiance to a flag that stands for the Republic, and they do so without first judging those who are different in color or creed. A flag that stands for a Republic that from its birth has been one Nation under God. Our children recite an allegiance to a flag that stands for a nation indivisible, while granting all her people the right to differ in opinions and beliefs; differences that cannot damage or divide a united nation.

Old Glory. The Stars and Stripes. She stands for liberty and justice for all.
Shouldn’t we stand for her?

In closing, you probably know that I am a huge sports fan, my favorite being football and the National Football League. But you see, I have enjoyed more than just the game on the field. I listen to the stories told about young boys that came from a life that most of us could never understand. Boys whose life could sadly and truthfully be called oppressed. A life that didn’t have a family. A family that didn’t have a place to call home. A home that had no food on the table most nights of the week. A life that included death waiting on the other side of every dark shadow. A life that they were told was inevitable because of who they were.

But some of these young boys didn’t listen to the naysayers. For some knew being the best at sports would be the only way out of this life. The chance of making it to the NFL or any other major sport was a long shot, but one they knew they must take.

I saw in the NFL a football nation that stood together, united, to bring to you and me, the fans, entertainment, nothing more. I saw a football nation that says come and play with us, without first looking at one’s color or creed. I saw a football nation that says we will begin every game, on every field, by remembering who we are—an indivisible nation with the Star Spangled Banner raised above our heads to remind us that we can cheer and stand as fans because of who we are.

That’s what I use to see.

Stand for your flag. Cheer for your team. And remember.

Tuesday, August 16, 2016

Next Chapter

As of late, I’ve been spending my evenings reading “Great Expectations”; one of my all-time favorite novels. Somehow Dickens manages to coerce me from chapter to chapter even as I am stumbling over his bumbling prose. Last night I continued a familiar journey beginning in the 37th chapter of this great novel, knowing from the outset, that the 38th chapter was my desired destination.

As eventide turned towards midnight, the lids of my weary eyes felt as if they were cloaked in the great weight of granite; yet that region of our cerebellum that motivates us beyond exhaustion was ignited as my memories of Miss Havisham’s cry to Pip (found in the 38th chapter), in the perfect Dickens dialogue, hung before my mind’s eye— “Let her call me mad, let her call me mad!”

Not only is “Great Expectations” one of my favorite novels, the 38th chapter of this classic may be my favorite in all the books I have read in my lifetime. Great books have great chapters—an accomplishment that I hope one day to achieve in my own writing.  The talented storyteller conveys his story in such a way that we desire to travel to the Next Chapter. The skilled writer recognizes when to insert the chapter break; serving to provide the reader a resting place or, with even greater skill, a launching place.

Book chapters come in many styles. There are the great ones, like the aforementioned 38th chapter of Great Expectations. And there are also the not-so-great chapters. These are typically filled with what move-makers would designate B-roll. There are long chapters and short chapters. There is the first chapter and the last chapter. There are chapters that you will not remember and there are chapters that you will never want to forget. There are the chapters that make you want to move, without pause, onto the Next Chapter. And then there are chapters that you never want to end.

But tonight I am not here to write about books.

When I look back at my life I do not see it measured in years, but instead, as chapters. There have been some good ones and bad ones. There were long chapters and others were so brief I wonder if I was even there when they unrolled. There have been some that I don’t remember and others that I don’t want to remember. 1975, 1982 and 2005 would fall into the murkiness of one of these two categories.

There were chapters that had me begging for the Next Chapter. 2014 tops the list of these. Not because I desired more but because I wanted to slam the cover shut upon it. It was miserably slowed by a nurse with a needle. All I could do was hope it would surely come to a close
.
There have even been great chapters, although they never seemed to also be a long chapter. And there were those that could called B-roll chapters. With manufactured optimism I try to think of these as learning chapters. But with well-developed pragmatism I know that what they really were… a waste of time.

The last three years of my life, my current chapter, (even with cancerous 2014 sitting near the rise) is probably the greatest chapter that I have ever lived. God is the author of my life and although I don’t always agree with his prose, chapter breaks, or his use of poetic humor, I accept it for what it is. After all, he already knows how this book ends.

On July 26th of 2013, God introduced a new character onto the storyboard called my life, a little baby named Logan James. I have ten grandchildren, each one is a blessing and I love each one with a love I did not know I possessed. But you see, Logan James came into my life during a chapter that needed him the most. And God knew that…and God did that.

This chapter was such that with each passing day I wanted to know more. I wanted the Storyteller to take me by the hand and show me everything. I wanted to know what was next in the life of Logan James. Each night, for three years, I have closed my eyes, wishing for the Next Chapter.

I guess I should have used more care in what I wished for.

The last few weeks have beckoned a new a call to a new chapter. Or as some would say (even when I didn’t want them to), life is always changing, you cannot halt its stride. This new call singing in my ears is not a joyous call, but it is one that I knew was coming. The words were clearly written on the final few pages of this last chapter, I just didn’t want to heed them.

Oh, what a grand chapter this has been. If I could tell my story to Dickens I think he may be jealous. Three years may seem long to the reader, but for me, it was oh so brief. I cannot find the words to describe how this last chapter changed me…but I can tell you this, because I know it better than any other great truth…

I did not want it to end.

Friday, August 12, 2016

Michael's Chair

(Based on a true story)

I knew the first time I saw him that it was more than cancer that had broken his body.
His name was Michael.
I saw him in a room where chemotherapy is delivered six days a week to about a dozen people. Sitting in the hard gray, high-backed chairs wasn’t new to me.  Every Monday for the past two months I made the trip to this Cancer Center to have the profitable poisons delivered through a port in my chest. From there the toxins would enter my veins to begin another skirmish with the cancer that had made residence inside my body.
That Monday was my fourth or fifth treatment; it is harder to keep track of such things anymore. For Michael it was his first time.
I had already settled into my chair and the pre-meds were traveling along the vessel byways when this new stranger plopped down in the chair across from mine.  He wore an old pair of dirty blue jeans, a lime green sleeveless shirt with a faded logo for Mountain Dew. The words “Do the Dew” had mostly worn away, now only professing, “o the ew”.  It seemed strangely appropriate.
On his feet he wore black work boots that had seen better days; the steel protection toe revealed on the left boot attested to this.
Both arms had tattoos.  His right arm was conservative in the ink paintings; a braided rope wrapped around his wrist. There was a word entwined within the rope but from my position I could not read it. On his left arm he wore a magnificent sleeve tattoo filled with brilliant colors.
I do not have any tattoos. My fifty-seven year old arms have shied away from the artist’s ink. I have nothing against those that desire to have their body become someone else’s canvas. I am an admirer of great art—and what this young man wore on his arm was beyond great, it was a masterpiece.
Once again from my vantage point I could not see this entire protoplasmic canvass. But over the next few weeks I would be able to learn more of the story his tattoos would tell.
Beginning at the curve of his almost but not quite scrawny shoulder was the image of great tiger, bearing his sharp teeth. If tattoos included audio, you would have heard the beast roaring his authority. The eyes of the tiger were a luminous gold, so realistic they looked as if they could be plucked right off his arm. Behind the tiger, serving as the background canvass were flames of orange and yellow, outlined heavily in charcoal black. This apocalyptic image was the background for the three images on his arm.
Below the roaring tiger was a rose in full bloom. The artist had combined a dazzling red with the same orange and yellow he had used as the backdrop. In doing so the rose seemed to be on fire, and yet like Moses’ burning bush no harm came to the rose.
The traveling tattoo ended just an inch above the wrist. This last image was a wise owl colored like none that have ever flown the night skies. The artist’s love for orange, yellow and red and a tinge of charcoal gray were blended together to create a color I have no name for. I can only describe it as grand. The talons of this owl were not perched upon a twig, but instead they gently held a stogie in its grasp. The cigar ring was gold colored with the letter “M” placed carefully like diamond on a wedding ring.
Over the next few weeks I asked Michael numerous times about his tattoo. I wanted to know the story it told. Michael would always laugh at my inquiry and then say “I will one day, when we have more time”
He never did.
He ran out of time.
                                                                                               

It is not my habit to speak with other patients when I am experiencing the delights of chemotherapy. It is not that I want to be left alone in my misery, but the majority of patients that are on the same schedule as me are…older. It is my experience that the older someone is the more they seem to want to share their miseries with anyone who will listen. Please don’t color me without mercy or without compassion, for I truly try to be. But to mix my own misery with someone else’s just does not fit well.
Michael was a talker. Within minutes of sitting down he looked across the aisle at me. I was reading an e-book on my tablet.
He asked, “What are you playing, man.”
I looked up from the tablet, “I’m not. I’m reading.”
“Oh” was his only reply.
Michael looked around the room. He had the jerky movements associated with someone who was hooked on drugs. Tremors, as he explored these new surroundings, were noticeable. He seemed anxious, a trait rarely exhibited in a room built to serve the inhabitants chemo drugs. Although at that moment he had silenced his tongue, as the day progressed he talked excessively and randomly.
He spotted one of the nurses returning to the room and raised his right hand as if in grade school. Just one indistinguishable tattoo on this arm, nothing to be considered. But what was clearly noticeable were the track marks running down his arm; the harbinger of abuse.
The tracks formed a “T”. In the crook of his arm three red circles surrounded by bruising, formed the cap of the “T”. Traveling down his arm were five or six smaller circles. The bruising around these was lighter in color, almost light maroon in appearance. I though these must be older. Each mark I imagined, just as he tattoos, also had a story to tell.
Michael looked across the aisle, “You wondering about these?” His east Texas accent made it sound like—“Ya wonering bout deez?”
He was pointing to the track marks; I was busy turning red-faced.
“It’s okay, man. I don’t try to hide them anymore. In fact I sorta hope they never go away. They remind of where I came from.”
His words somehow reduced the embarrassment I had just moments before encountered. I shifted in my chair, searching for the right words.
“It’s cool man,” he said, “You don’t gotta talk.” He smiled, his teeth revealed what I had first suspected. They wore the decay of a drug abuser.
Sometimes a little voice whispers in my ear, and in my heart. I know there have been times when that voice belonged to God and other times it came from something we call our conscious or inner-voice. I can’t tell you where the voice originated that day. But I can tell what I heard—
“Talk to him!”
“I’m sorry,” I began, “Where did you come from? And where are you going?”
“I came from a pretty dark place, man. You probably wouldn’t want to hear about.”
He was wrong…I wanted to know.
He continued, “Where am I going? I am going to heaven man!” He laughed.
This young man, who wore so many scars, sat up straight in his chair and asked me, “Do you know Jesus?”
“For almost thirty years now.” I replied.
“Wow, man that is awesome.”
“What about you?” I asked. “How long have you known Jesus?”
My question was not just in response to his. I was curious about track marks on the arm of a Believer.
“I’ve known Him for one day, man. Yesterday I walked into a church for the first time since I was a kid.”
Over the next three and a half hours I would learn that shortly before he walked into a church and surrendered his life to Jesus Christ he had attended a Narcotics Anonymous meeting at the emphatic request of his sister. She had been clean for more than three years and knew the only way out was to look up. After the N.A. meeting they had breakfast at an I.H.O.P. restaurant just a few blocks away from the church his sister attended. Feeding her brother a real meal was the opportunity and leverage to urge him to finish what he had begun that morning by going to church with her.
Michael confessed to me that he didn’t really want to do that. His idea of religion was that churches were filled every Sunday with hypocrites that would look down on someone like him. He told me that as they walked to the church he wanted to “bolt” about every ten feet. But his sister kept talking to him, telling him that not a single person in this church had ever looked down upon her. That they had stood by her during the darkest hours of her life. They had been there when she backslid, returning to the blackness of her own addiction. They had stood by her side when she hit rock bottom for the second time in her life.
“Did you finally hit rock bottom?” I asked him.
“No man, the people think that you have to hit rock bottom before you can stop using, are wrong. That’s BS! That’s an excuse not to find help. Because they haven’t felt the sharp edges of the stones they think that they don’t have to stop sucking down Norco or snorting Cracker Jack. It’s BS man.” His agitation was a little unsettling.
Michael continued, “I ain’t bullshitting you man. I could see the bottom. I could touch the rocks with my toes. But I never hit the bottom. I never will now.” He smiled again.
I saw in Michael a raw intelligence that I wouldn’t have thought was possible in someone who had abused drugs. The drugs that he invited into his life will destroy brain cells without concern for the proprietor. Their destruction leads to a weakened system that can no longer say “no”.
Our conversation that day and the next chemo-day included stories of his addiction, talk about sports, tales of his tattoos and questions. Many questions.
Michael’s understanding of scripture, of Jesus, of religion and of God was innocent and elementary. He often would change subjects in midstream and ask me a question about God.
He talked. I listened. He questioned. I answered.
I learned.
                                                                                               

The following week Michael was already planted in a chair when I arrived. Sitting next to him in a hard-backed chair was a young woman. She was dressed casually in a light yellow sun dress. She was pretty, with long flowing golden blond hair. Her complexion was that of someone who spends time outside. She looked tired. She is Michael’s sister. Her name is Chelsea.
Michael smiled when he saw me walking down the path that is formed by the chemo-chairs. The seat across from him was occupied by another chemo patient, so I took the chair next to him.
He introduced me to his sister. His voiced reflected the same tiredness that was on his sister’s face. This pair of siblings looked worn down.
The nurse arrived to prep for my treatment, Michael and his sister sat silently, looking at nothing.
It only takes a few minutes to get the chemo-engine running. The nurse patted me on the head and turned in route to her next patient.
I looked over at Michael and asked him how he was doing...
“Not good.”
It took a while that morning for Michael and Chelsea to tell me the latest chapter in their story.
Michael was going through withdrawals. Years of abuse was refusing to leave quietly. Chelsea had tried to find a rehab center that would take Michael. But there was no money, no insurance. Michael hadn’t held a steady job in over two years. I learned that he had lived by stealing, by cutting the drugs he purchased and re-selling them as pure. More than once the buyer had returned to beat Michael into a surrendering a refund or just out of a maddening revenge emanating from their own lack of euphoria.
Almost three months ago Michael moved into a weekly rent apartment building after landing a job as a dishwasher in a local honky-tonk. The apartment building had once been the home of hard working citizens who paid their rent each month and on time. Years of decay, not only of the building but of the neighborhood, had changed the profile of local denizens. Most were poor, jobless and always one step away from being homeless. Many of them abused the same drugs that Michael did…a united community. The truth was that any of them would kill you just as quickly as they would share a joint with you.
Michael provided just a glimpse into the dark place he had come from, stopping short of providing complete details. I did ask him if he had spoken to his oncologist about getting help. He said they, the “We care People” were “working on it”.
Chelsea changed subjects, typically a task delivered by Michael.
“Michael told me that you helped him understand some of Scriptures he was struggling with. I appreciate that. He doesn’t talk to me about God…”
Michael interrupted, “That’s the way it used to be sis. You brought me to your church, even when you knew I didn’t want to go. I will talk to you about God. I will talk to anybody about God. I just don’t how to go beyond telling someone that I love Him.”
“Sometimes that is enough.” Chelsea smiled, taking her brother’s hand.
For the nearly two hours we talked about God. Avoiding the subject of withdrawals, rehab and the earthly future he was facing. Michael had many questions about his walk with Christ and where it would take him. Chelsea impressed me with her knowledge of the Bible. Her love for Jesus Christ was on display each time she answered a question from her brother.
Our conversation took an unexpected turn and suddenly we were talking about Michael’s past. He told us a story that Chelsea had never heard. (Of course I hadn’t either).
“You know I thought I saw an angel once. I was so frickin high that the angel began to change. You know like a Transformer. And then I thought it was God’s face I was seeing. It scared me, man. I was more scared than I had ever been in my life. I thought God was going to kill me right there in the alley. He was going to kill me because I was stealing and getting annihilated all the time. I was ate up man, God’s face was right there. I could have reached out and touched it, but I thought my hand would frickin burn off or something. I knew I was bent bad, somewhere inside my head I heard my own voice telling me that it ain’t real man, you’re just screwed up. But I was scared, seeing God’s face was freaky, man. I started crying like a little baby. And then I started to scream. I squeezed my eyes shut, screaming for the face of God to go away. When I opened my eyes again the face was gone. But in its place was the face of Trapper Jack. He was so close I could feel his hot breath on my cheeks. It smelled like butterscotch. I looked into his eyes and knew that he was coked up. I also knew that he was pissed. I owed him a lot of jack for some of the crap I had bought from him. But I had been hiding from him because I blew the profits on buying more shit for me. Man, I couldn’t help it, I need to be high, I needed to go numb. Trapper Jack stood up and I saw his foot heading right for my man parts. He kicked me hard over and over. I thought I was going to die again right there in the alley. I was crying again. Suddenly the kicking stopped. I looked up and Trapper Jack was gone. From out of the darkness appeared three of his boys. They picked up where Trapper left off. I didn’t know I could sober up that fast. I started counting the hits. I was hoping that by counting I wouldn’t feel them. It didn’t work. I blacked out. When I woke up I was in the County Hospital emergency room. That was cool…I knew they had drugs.”
I sat there looking at Michael. I didn’t know what to say.
Chelsea was crying.
                                                                                               

Michael’s treatment was finished before mine but they stayed until the chair Michael had occupied was needed by another patient. Michael got up and headed to the restroom, leaving Chelsea there alone. She told me she was worried about Michael and the withdrawals that he suffered each night. The days were better she told me, it seemed that if he kept busy that the pains were less. She asked me for my phone number, “In case I don’t know what to do when he is at his worse.”
I didn’t hesitate to give her my cell number, adding that she could call anytime, day or night. We said a quick prayer that God would take control of Michael’s life and ease the pain he was suffering.
Michael returned and we exchanged farewells.
I had no way of knowing that this would be last time I would ever see this tattooed drug addict-born again Christian.
                                                                                               

Day 28
I hate chemo-day. I just started feeling better after the terrible side effects of the previous treatment. I knew that before the end of the day” feeling better” will be nothing more than a faded memory. But today my usual anxiety was replaced by anticipation. I looked forward to talking with Michael; to hear how he was progressing in his recovery, how he was handling the chemo treatments and how his walk with Christ was growing.
The waiting room was filled near capacity when I arrived at the Cancer Center. I checked in and found one empty seat, sitting, waiting to hear my name called. First would be the weekly blood draw, followed by a weigh in and a conversation with the doctor. After the brief and mundane interview I would enter the treatment area to begin another agonizing journey.
I looked around the waiting room to see if Michael had arrived yet. No signs of him or his sister. I launched my weekly habit of looking at the people in the room. I was careful not to stare as to make someone uncomfortable. I have perfected the art of observation without the appearance of observing. I thought about their stories. What cancer are they battling? Many of those waiting were older. They had run past the average life span sign many years ago. I always wondered if I would have their courage if my own cancer had been delayed, arriving twenty years from now. Chemotherapy is an awful experience. The “We care People” will try to motivate and convince you that it won’t be as bad as what you have heard. Lying is part of their duties. I thought these aged participants were either crazy or desperate.
I remember on the first day of treatment meeting the nurse that would administer the chemo treatment. She belongs to the “We Care People” club, yet she was different. Her name is Rosie; I have grown to admire her abilities as a caretaker. I will never forget her words regarding the treatment—
This is going to suck pretty badly. But you will be okay. It is my job to make sure you are.”
Blatant honesty! How refreshing.
Back in the waiting room I heard my name being called. At the same moment my cell phone informed me that I had an incoming call. I didn’t recognize the originating   number on the screen and almost slid the screen to ignore the call.
I did not.
I wish I had.
But denial has no resurrecting power.
“Hello”
It was Chelsea’s voice; I recognized the east Texas drawl immediately.
“Hi. Can you talk?” She asked.
I spied the nurse who would begin my day by draining blood from my arm standing in the doorway waiting for me.
I asked Chelsea if I could call her back in a few minutes. I explained quickly that I was entering the torture chambers. She didn’t reply right away. When she finally agreed I could hear the disappointment in her one word— “Okay.” Then she was gone.
The few minutes turned into thirty minutes before I could return Chelsea’s call. The doctor had dominated most of that time with good and not so good news. Later the not so good news would pale in comparison to the story I would hear from a phone snuggled up to my ear.
I pulled my cell phone out of my pocket after settling into the chair. The nurse poked my port marking the beginning of the four hour poison drip. I hit the call back button; Chelsea answered after the first ring.
“I’m sorry it took so long to call you back. The center is very busy today. What’s up?” I began the conversation.
Ten long seconds passed before she spoke, “It’s Michael.”
 “What’s the matter Chelsea? Is Michael okay?
Another long pause, longer than the first. I could hear her breathing.
“He is…he is dead.” Her sobbing increased with such intensity it seeped through speaker on my phone. I could feel her breathing, I could taste her tears.
I let her cry before saying anything. I listened waiting to hear her agony ease. It seemed as if it may never stop.
Suddenly it did stop, as quickly as it had come.
“He’s dead”, she repeated, “I don’t know what to do.”
An image exploded in my mind of Chelsea and Michael. Was she with him now? Was he lying dead on the floor with his sister sitting next to him? The vision developed slowly like an old Polaroid picture—Michael was lying on a carpeted floor. His blood was soaking into the torn and ragged material of the cheap carpet. His head had been beaten in by some thug Michael owed money to. Chelsea was sitting on the floor, her shins folded underneath her legs, in a praying position. The yellow sun dress she wore was slowly consuming the blood the carpet ignored.
This image was grossly skewed. That is not what happened.
But Michael was dead.
“Chelsea, I am so sorry. What happened?” I asked, trying to conceal the tremble in my voice.
She began to speak.
“Twenty-eight days. It was twenty eight days ago that Michael changed his life. All he spoke about yesterday was reaching the thirty day mark. His N.A. meetings recognize these milestones. Thirty days isn’t a long time…unless you are an addict in recovery. Then it is a lifetime.”
She stopped and began to sob again. I could only listen and wait.
Again, she spoke.
“Yesterday evening there was an Eviction Notice on his door. He was sixty days behind. He never told me. It was only three hundred dollars! He didn’t tell me, I could have found the help. He didn’t tell me! I could have helped, but he wouldn’t let me.”
More sobbing. More waiting.
“Early this morning the police were knocking on my door. I saw them through the side window and I knew something was wrong. I knew it was Michael. But I didn’t know he was dead.”
A short pause. No crying.
“The police told me that the landlord came to evict Michael or collect the money. The Constable was with the landlord. When Michael didn’t respond to them knocking loudly on the door…”
A longer pause. Silent crying, but I could hear the tears making a pathway down her cheeks.
“They opened the door. Michael was lying on the floor with a broken syringe sticking out of the rose tattoo on his arm. He had overdosed. He was dead.”
“I am so sorry Chelsea.” I didn’t bother to try and hide my own emotions this time.
“There was a note” She told me.
Suicide?
I didn’t want to ask, “What did it say?” I asked anyway.
“There were two words—‘I can’t’.” Chelsea cried.
I waited.
“Jim, there was more.”
I waited.
“He wrote a question for you.”
Silence.
“Jim, do I still get to go home?” I could tell she was reading the note from memory.
“Does he?” she asked.
I felt the hot tears running down my own cheeks. I could taste their bitterness on my tongue. I did not sob, I cried silently in a room that was almost full with people that may soon die.
She waited.
I cried. My shirt was stained by the endless stream of tears.
Then the Lord infused me; not with chemicals but with His promise.
I looked across the aisle at the only empty chair in the room. Michael’s chair.
I spoke.
“Jesus said, ‘And I give unto them eternal life; and they shall never parish, neither shall any man pluck them out of my hand.’ Chelsea, Michael is in His hand. And he shall never parish.”
“Thank you. My brother is dead, Jim. I don’t understand. He was trying so hard.”
“Twenty eight days was not long for you and Michael. But it was long enough for God to call Michael home. He has plans for Michael, great plans. God knew Michael was finished here. He allows everything to happen…even when we make bad choices, wrong decisions. I think even the decision to die.”
“Michael liked you Jim. So do I. God brought you into our lives at the right time. I needed to call you and tell you what happened and to thank you.”
The call disconnected. I never saw Chelsea or Michael again. I realize I don’t even know their last name.
Michael’s dead.
28 days.
Dear God, please let me be right.
Amen



"Michael's Chair" can be found with other short stories of faith athttps://www.amazon.com/Shadow-Faith-other-short-stories-ebook/dp/B00YX3T876#nav-subnav

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