| General Fiction posted April 13, 2023 |
  |
A Late Christmas Gift
My Brother's Christmas
by irishauthorme
Dear Lawrence
The letter was addressed to me in cursive, blue ink. There was no return address, front or back. When I saw Stone Ridge, NY on the stamp, I threw the letter into the kitchen trash bin.
After all these years, and what had happened, I did not want to read anything from my cheating, lying brother.
But that night I couldn't sleep. So here I am, 2:30 am, in my shorts and t-shirt, up to my elbows in the trash, digging that damn letter out from under the coffee grounds, wilted lettuce, and the spaghetti-stained paper plate from my supper.
Curiosity, conscience? Who the hell knows? I sat at the kitchen counter, turned on the light, took a paring knife from the drawer, and cut the soggy envelope open. I spread the two damp sheets of folded paper out on the counter. I unfolded the first sheet with my name on it.
Then, my life changed.
Stone Ridge, NY
April 11, 2023
Dear Lawrence,
I got your address from a lady at the Casper newspaper where you worked. I apologize for this note being so tardy. I am so sorry for everything that happened. I know you have lived with it all these years, but I have, too. But it's too late for all that now. Because you and Gaige have not spoken in forty years, I didn't think you would want to hear anything about him, or me.
I do want you to know that while we did not attend your mom's celebration of life at the church, we did visit her grave after everyone else was gone. Gaige talked to your mom, and read some Bible verses. We laid a wreath up against her tombstone.
Gaige suffered a heart attack and passed away just after midnight, Christmas Eve. I have been so lost that I couldn't do anything, let alone think. I was finally able to open Gaige's writing folder yesterday. He had been writing fiction and poetry for the last few years. The last thing he wrote was on Christmas Eve, just before he left this earth.
He left a note for me, asking me to send it to you.
Alicia
I reached for the other folded sheet, but my hand was shaking. I stopped. The old pain faded. A new pain of loss seized my heart.
Too many memories flashed before my eyes. My dad's small funeral. Pictures. Mourners murmuring. Cloying smell of the lowered wreaths. Recorded organ music droning.
Memories. A flashback. The metallic taste of blood in my mouth.
My lower lip is bleeding. I'm laying on my back, just outside the grammar school playground. I can smell the crushed dandelions. The school bully, Boyce Morgan, is standing over me, laughing. He snarls, "Get up, you little punk bastard!" His three buddies are laughing and pointing. My little brother, Gaige, comes running up, drops his books, and lays into Boyce. Knocks Boyce down and sits on him, punching his face, over and over. Boyce's nose explodes like a ripe tomato. A teacher, Mrs. Moore, and the principal, Mr. Stanford, run up and pull Gaige off Boyce. Gaige and I are expelled. Because we had lost our dad, our mom had to meet with Mr. Stanford before we were let back into school. My mom transfers Gaige and me to another school.
Pictures blur and jump to later memories.
The crowd roars as Gaige scores another touchdown for Gainesville High, and we won the championship game against Riverton. He broke the record for most points scored in a season, and most yards rushing gained. We are dating sisters, Alicia and Monica Campbell, who are Gainesville cheerleaders. Gaige gets a sports scholarship to the University of Illinois. Alicia, Monica, and I all pass the U. of IL. entrance exams. We all live on campus, at the university, in the twin cities of Urbana and Champaign. Hard studies, good times.
Jump.
Gaige and I are now in our fourth year at the University. Gaige has been drafted by a semi-pro football team, the Chicago Cardinals and some pro-football agents are looking at him.
Jump.
Alicia and I are in love. At night, in bed together, we talk about marriage when we graduate.
Painful jump.
Blood seeps through Gaige's bandages, staining the hospital sheets and pillow cover. His left leg is elevated. The lines run across the green screen of the monitor, as it beeps and buzzes. Gaige's face is so swollen I hardly recognize him. He is still unconscious. Gaige went through the windshield of his 1980 Chevrolet Malibu Super Sport, as it hit that power pole. Doctor Billingham comes in and draws my mom out into the hallway. When she comes back in, her face is gray. Tears shine in the corners of her eyes. She takes my hands. "They want me to sign a permission slip in case they have to amputate your brother's left leg."
"No! Did you sign?"
"No. I want to wait until Mark Kinsey takes a look at the leg."
Dr. Kinsey is the top orthopedic surgeon in Illinois. After his exam, he told us, "Gaige has a spiral break in his left leg, very difficult to heal. The next twenty-four hours are critical. If we can keep enough blood circulating, without clotting, we can save the leg."
He took my mother's hand. "At best, Gaige will always have a limp, that's the best we can do."
Gaige regains consciousness. They are still trying to save his leg. His football days are over. Gaige is in deep depression. We all visit as much as we can. Our mom is out of money. I get a job with the Chicago Tribune and move there, and send money to my mom.
The Campbell sisters visit Gaige every day. When their mother has a stroke, Monica goes home, Alicia stays to visit Gaige.
Monica returns just as Gaige is ready to be released. Gaige and Alicia break the news. They are getting married. My mom calls me with the news, just before Alicia calls and wants to meet. I don't reply and refuse any calls from her.
First, I am in disbelief. Then, in tears. Next, I am enraged. I try to call Monica but she won't answer.
So what am I going to do, go beat up my crippled brother? No. Swearing my mom to secrecy, I transfer from the Chicago newspaper to Casper, Wyoming, and work for the Casper Star Tribune. My mom tells me Gaige and Alicia got married and moved to New York. Gaige becomes a syndicated sportswriter. Alicia becomes a surgery nurse. They buy a place in toney Stone Ridge, in the Catskill Mountains, and commute to New York City.
After ten years, I quit the Casper Star Tribune, moved to Lander, Wyoming, bought a small cattle ranch, and invested in stocks. Both did well. I retired at sixty-two.
Now, I have a wonderful, ranch-raised Wyoming, Levi's-wearing, cowboy-booted lady, Callie Clarke. She never intrudes, but is here when I need her. Kind, understanding, with calloused hands and a tender heart. She waits patiently, but I am not ready to commit.
Now I am ready to read my brother's letter. I unfold the other sheet. As I read, I hear my brother's voice speaking the words.
"My Dear Brother Lawrence, please read this. I have not told Alicia, because she is no good at this kind of thing. I got some bad news from my cardiologist's last visit. I have had a bad heart for years. I am over the limit on stints and up to the limit on meds. The doc gave me six weeks to three months to live. Before that final curtain, I want to try and square things between us."
"First, neither I nor Alicia planned to become involved. It was purely a case of sympathy becoming affection. In spite of the pain we created, we love each other very much and we both miss you. I am sterile from the accident. Alicia mourns the children we will never raise."
"Mom still will not speak to us. Monica occasionally corresponded with Alicia, until she passed away from pneumonia last year."
"Although I am sometimes a little woozy from the pain medications, I am not delusional. Memories of our childhood together with Mom and Dad occupy all my waking hours and my dreams. Sometimes, late at night, I hear Mom and Dad calling me."
"The most painful dream is about you. We are in our backyard. I am standing on the porch. You are standing under the huge, old apple tree, Dad's heavy, .45 revolver hanging in your hand. You do not berate or condemn me, you just stand in the shade of the tree, silently staring at me with tears staining your cheeks. You raise the revolver and there is a terrible, deafening explosion as you shoot yourself in the chest and stagger back against the tree trunk. There is a spreading, red stain on your shirt. I scream and run to you. Your eyes are open, and you smile at me. I pull you to me, but you are dead. I hear a scream and look back. Our mother is standing on the porch, her hand over her mouth."
"Alicia wakes me. She knows I have had that dream again."
"I have been researching the history of our homeland, Ireland, and a verse from Keats's poem, "The Stolen Child," seemed particularly appropriate at this time:
Away with us he's going,
The solemn eyed:
No more he'll hear the lowing
Of the calves on the warm hillside
Or the kettle on the hob
Sing peace in to his breast,
Or see the brown mice bob
Round and round the oatmeal chest
For he comes, the human child,
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world's more full of weeping than he can understand.
"And lastly, my own offering:
Christ is born, with my life waning
the night is clear, and still
But what light is that shining
Far off, on that high hill
A Christmas tree, small but bright
Shining, glowing, on this Holy night
And a voice, rising, falling
Someone dear, calling, calling
"You're not alone, not alone."
My mother's voice, calling me home, calling me home."
Gaige's voice fell silent. I read his poem again, slowly, absorbing every word.
I set the letter on the counter. I switched off the light and stared, through tears, out the window for a long time at the moon, bright on the deep snow.
I went to the bedroom, sat on my bed, and took my cell phone off the charger. I pushed the button. It took a lot of rings for her to answer.
When Callie croaked a sleepy "Hello?"
I glanced out the window once more. "Listen, I'll pick you up in the morning."
"Wha- what? Where are we going?"
"To Casper. I know a JP there. Wear something nice."
"A JP?"
"Justice of the Peace."
"Wha-?"
"We're getting married tomorrow."
Finito
Dear Lawrence
The letter was addressed to me in cursive, blue ink. There was no return address, front or back. When I saw Stone Ridge, NY on the stamp, I threw the letter into the kitchen trash bin.
After all these years, and what had happened, I did not want to read anything from my cheating, lying brother.
But that night I couldn't sleep. So here I am, 2:30 am, in my shorts and t-shirt, up to my elbows in the trash, digging that damn letter out from under the coffee grounds, wilted lettuce, and the spaghetti-stained paper plate from my supper.
Curiosity, conscience? Who the hell knows? I sat at the kitchen counter, turned on the light, took a paring knife from the drawer, and cut the soggy envelope open. I spread the two damp sheets of folded paper out on the counter. I unfolded the first sheet with my name on it.
Then, my life changed.
Stone Ridge, NY
April 11, 2023
Dear Lawrence,
I got your address from a lady at the Casper newspaper where you worked. I apologize for this note being so tardy. I am so sorry for everything that happened. I know you have lived with it all these years, but I have, too. But it's too late for all that now. Because you and Gaige have not spoken in forty years, I didn't think you would want to hear anything about him, or me.
I do want you to know that while we did not attend your mom's celebration of life at the church, we did visit her grave after everyone else was gone. Gaige talked to your mom, and read some Bible verses. We laid a wreath up against her tombstone.
Gaige suffered a heart attack and passed away just after midnight, Christmas Eve. I have been so lost that I couldn't do anything, let alone think. I was finally able to open Gaige's writing folder yesterday. He had been writing fiction and poetry for the last few years. The last thing he wrote was on Christmas Eve, just before he left this earth.
He left a note for me, asking me to send it to you.
Alicia
I reached for the other folded sheet, but my hand was shaking. I stopped. The old pain faded. A new pain of loss seized my heart.
Too many memories flashed before my eyes. My dad's small funeral. Pictures. Mourners murmuring. Cloying smell of the lowered wreaths. Recorded organ music droning.
Memories. A flashback. The metallic taste of blood in my mouth.
My lower lip is bleeding. I'm laying on my back, just outside the grammar school playground. I can smell the crushed dandelions. The school bully, Boyce Morgan, is standing over me, laughing. He snarls, "Get up, you little punk bastard!" His three buddies are laughing and pointing. My little brother, Gaige, comes running up, drops his books, and lays into Boyce. Knocks Boyce down and sits on him, punching his face, over and over. Boyce's nose explodes like a ripe tomato. A teacher, Mrs. Moore, and the principal, Mr. Stanford, run up and pull Gaige off Boyce. Gaige and I are expelled. Because we had lost our dad, our mom had to meet with Mr. Stanford before we were let back into school. My mom transfers Gaige and me to another school.
Pictures blur and jump to later memories.
The crowd roars as Gaige scores another touchdown for Gainesville High, and we won the championship game against Riverton. He broke the record for most points scored in a season, and most yards rushing gained. We are dating sisters, Alicia and Monica Campbell, who are Gainesville cheerleaders. Gaige gets a sports scholarship to the University of Illinois. Alicia, Monica, and I all pass the U. of IL. entrance exams. We all live on campus, at the university, in the twin cities of Urbana and Champaign. Hard studies, good times.
Jump.
Gaige and I are now in our fourth year at the University. Gaige has been drafted by a semi-pro football team, the Chicago Cardinals and some pro-football agents are looking at him.
Jump.
Alicia and I are in love. At night, in bed together, we talk about marriage when we graduate.
Painful jump.
Blood seeps through Gaige's bandages, staining the hospital sheets and pillow cover. His left leg is elevated. The lines run across the green screen of the monitor, as it beeps and buzzes. Gaige's face is so swollen I hardly recognize him. He is still unconscious. Gaige went through the windshield of his 1980 Chevrolet Malibu Super Sport, as it hit that power pole. Doctor Billingham comes in and draws my mom out into the hallway. When she comes back in, her face is gray. Tears shine in the corners of her eyes. She takes my hands. "They want me to sign a permission slip in case they have to amputate your brother's left leg."
"No! Did you sign?"
"No. I want to wait until Mark Kinsey takes a look at the leg."
Dr. Kinsey is the top orthopedic surgeon in Illinois. After his exam, he told us, "Gaige has a spiral break in his left leg, very difficult to heal. The next twenty-four hours are critical. If we can keep enough blood circulating, without clotting, we can save the leg."
He took my mother's hand. "At best, Gaige will always have a limp, that's the best we can do."
Gaige regains consciousness. They are still trying to save his leg. His football days are over. Gaige is in deep depression. We all visit as much as we can. Our mom is out of money. I get a job with the Chicago Tribune and move there, and send money to my mom.
The Campbell sisters visit Gaige every day. When their mother has a stroke, Monica goes home, Alicia stays to visit Gaige.
Monica returns just as Gaige is ready to be released. Gaige and Alicia break the news. They are getting married. My mom calls me with the news, just before Alicia calls and wants to meet. I don't reply and refuse any calls from her.
First, I am in disbelief. Then, in tears. Next, I am enraged. I try to call Monica but she won't answer.
So what am I going to do, go beat up my crippled brother? No. Swearing my mom to secrecy, I transfer from the Chicago newspaper to Casper, Wyoming, and work for the Casper Star Tribune. My mom tells me Gaige and Alicia got married and moved to New York. Gaige becomes a syndicated sportswriter. Alicia becomes a surgery nurse. They buy a place in toney Stone Ridge, in the Catskill Mountains, and commute to New York City.
After ten years, I quit the Casper Star Tribune, moved to Lander, Wyoming, bought a small cattle ranch, and invested in stocks. Both did well. I retired at sixty-two.
Now, I have a wonderful, ranch-raised Wyoming, Levi's-wearing, cowboy-booted lady, Callie Clarke. She never intrudes, but is here when I need her. Kind, understanding, with calloused hands and a tender heart. She waits patiently, but I am not ready to commit.
Now I am ready to read my brother's letter. I unfold the other sheet. As I read, I hear my brother's voice speaking the words.
"My Dear Brother Lawrence, please read this. I have not told Alicia, because she is no good at this kind of thing. I got some bad news from my cardiologist's last visit. I have had a bad heart for years. I am over the limit on stints and up to the limit on meds. The doc gave me six weeks to three months to live. Before that final curtain, I want to try and square things between us."
"First, neither I nor Alicia planned to become involved. It was purely a case of sympathy becoming affection. In spite of the pain we created, we love each other very much and we both miss you. I am sterile from the accident. Alicia mourns the children we will never raise."
"Mom still will not speak to us. Monica occasionally corresponded with Alicia, until she passed away from pneumonia last year."
"Although I am sometimes a little woozy from the pain medications, I am not delusional. Memories of our childhood together with Mom and Dad occupy all my waking hours and my dreams. Sometimes, late at night, I hear Mom and Dad calling me."
"The most painful dream is about you. We are in our backyard. I am standing on the porch. You are standing under the huge, old apple tree, Dad's heavy, .45 revolver hanging in your hand. You do not berate or condemn me, you just stand in the shade of the tree, silently staring at me with tears staining your cheeks. You raise the revolver and there is a terrible, deafening explosion as you shoot yourself in the chest and stagger back against the tree trunk. There is a spreading, red stain on your shirt. I scream and run to you. Your eyes are open, and you smile at me. I pull you to me, but you are dead. I hear a scream and look back. Our mother is standing on the porch, her hand over her mouth."
"Alicia wakes me. She knows I have had that dream again."
"I have been researching the history of our homeland, Ireland, and a verse from Keats's poem, "The Stolen Child," seemed particularly appropriate at this time:
Away with us he's going,
The solemn eyed:
No more he'll hear the lowing
Of the calves on the warm hillside
Or the kettle on the hob
Sing peace in to his breast,
Or see the brown mice bob
Round and round the oatmeal chest
For he comes, the human child,
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world's more full of weeping than he can understand.
"And lastly, my own offering:
Christ is born, with my life waning
the night is clear, and still
But what light is that shining
Far off, on that high hill
A Christmas tree, small but bright
Shining, glowing, on this Holy night
And a voice, rising, falling
Someone dear, calling, calling
"You're not alone, not alone."
My mother's voice, calling me home, calling me home."
Gaige's voice fell silent. I read his poem again, slowly, absorbing every word.
I set the letter on the counter. I switched off the light and stared, through tears, out the window for a long time at the moon, bright on the deep snow.
I went to the bedroom, sat on my bed, and took my cell phone off the charger. I pushed the button. It took a lot of rings for her to answer.
When Callie croaked a sleepy "Hello?"
I glanced out the window once more. "Listen, I'll pick you up in the morning."
"Wha- what? Where are we going?"
"To Casper. I know a JP there. Wear something nice."
"A JP?"
"Justice of the Peace."
"Wha-?"
"We're getting married tomorrow."
Finito
The letter was addressed to me in cursive, blue ink. There was no return address, front or back. When I saw Stone Ridge, NY on the stamp, I threw the letter into the kitchen trash bin.
After all these years, and what had happened, I did not want to read anything from my cheating, lying brother.
But that night I couldn't sleep. So here I am, 2:30 am, in my shorts and t-shirt, up to my elbows in the trash, digging that damn letter out from under the coffee grounds, wilted lettuce, and the spaghetti-stained paper plate from my supper.
Curiosity, conscience? Who the hell knows? I sat at the kitchen counter, turned on the light, took a paring knife from the drawer, and cut the soggy envelope open. I spread the two damp sheets of folded paper out on the counter. I unfolded the first sheet with my name on it.
Then, my life changed.
Stone Ridge, NY
April 11, 2023
Dear Lawrence,
I got your address from a lady at the Casper newspaper where you worked. I apologize for this note being so tardy. I am so sorry for everything that happened. I know you have lived with it all these years, but I have, too. But it's too late for all that now. Because you and Gaige have not spoken in forty years, I didn't think you would want to hear anything about him, or me.
I do want you to know that while we did not attend your mom's celebration of life at the church, we did visit her grave after everyone else was gone. Gaige talked to your mom, and read some Bible verses. We laid a wreath up against her tombstone.
Gaige suffered a heart attack and passed away just after midnight, Christmas Eve. I have been so lost that I couldn't do anything, let alone think. I was finally able to open Gaige's writing folder yesterday. He had been writing fiction and poetry for the last few years. The last thing he wrote was on Christmas Eve, just before he left this earth.
He left a note for me, asking me to send it to you.
Alicia
I reached for the other folded sheet, but my hand was shaking. I stopped. The old pain faded. A new pain of loss seized my heart.
Too many memories flashed before my eyes. My dad's small funeral. Pictures. Mourners murmuring. Cloying smell of the lowered wreaths. Recorded organ music droning.
Memories. A flashback. The metallic taste of blood in my mouth.
My lower lip is bleeding. I'm laying on my back, just outside the grammar school playground. I can smell the crushed dandelions. The school bully, Boyce Morgan, is standing over me, laughing. He snarls, "Get up, you little punk bastard!" His three buddies are laughing and pointing. My little brother, Gaige, comes running up, drops his books, and lays into Boyce. Knocks Boyce down and sits on him, punching his face, over and over. Boyce's nose explodes like a ripe tomato. A teacher, Mrs. Moore, and the principal, Mr. Stanford, run up and pull Gaige off Boyce. Gaige and I are expelled. Because we had lost our dad, our mom had to meet with Mr. Stanford before we were let back into school. My mom transfers Gaige and me to another school.
Pictures blur and jump to later memories.
The crowd roars as Gaige scores another touchdown for Gainesville High, and we won the championship game against Riverton. He broke the record for most points scored in a season, and most yards rushing gained. We are dating sisters, Alicia and Monica Campbell, who are Gainesville cheerleaders. Gaige gets a sports scholarship to the University of Illinois. Alicia, Monica, and I all pass the U. of IL. entrance exams. We all live on campus, at the university, in the twin cities of Urbana and Champaign. Hard studies, good times.
Jump.
Gaige and I are now in our fourth year at the University. Gaige has been drafted by a semi-pro football team, the Chicago Cardinals and some pro-football agents are looking at him.
Jump.
Alicia and I are in love. At night, in bed together, we talk about marriage when we graduate.
Painful jump.
Blood seeps through Gaige's bandages, staining the hospital sheets and pillow cover. His left leg is elevated. The lines run across the green screen of the monitor, as it beeps and buzzes. Gaige's face is so swollen I hardly recognize him. He is still unconscious. Gaige went through the windshield of his 1980 Chevrolet Malibu Super Sport, as it hit that power pole. Doctor Billingham comes in and draws my mom out into the hallway. When she comes back in, her face is gray. Tears shine in the corners of her eyes. She takes my hands. "They want me to sign a permission slip in case they have to amputate your brother's left leg."
"No! Did you sign?"
"No. I want to wait until Mark Kinsey takes a look at the leg."
Dr. Kinsey is the top orthopedic surgeon in Illinois. After his exam, he told us, "Gaige has a spiral break in his left leg, very difficult to heal. The next twenty-four hours are critical. If we can keep enough blood circulating, without clotting, we can save the leg."
He took my mother's hand. "At best, Gaige will always have a limp, that's the best we can do."
Gaige regains consciousness. They are still trying to save his leg. His football days are over. Gaige is in deep depression. We all visit as much as we can. Our mom is out of money. I get a job with the Chicago Tribune and move there, and send money to my mom.
The Campbell sisters visit Gaige every day. When their mother has a stroke, Monica goes home, Alicia stays to visit Gaige.
Monica returns just as Gaige is ready to be released. Gaige and Alicia break the news. They are getting married. My mom calls me with the news, just before Alicia calls and wants to meet. I don't reply and refuse any calls from her.
First, I am in disbelief. Then, in tears. Next, I am enraged. I try to call Monica but she won't answer.
So what am I going to do, go beat up my crippled brother? No. Swearing my mom to secrecy, I transfer from the Chicago newspaper to Casper, Wyoming, and work for the Casper Star Tribune. My mom tells me Gaige and Alicia got married and moved to New York. Gaige becomes a syndicated sportswriter. Alicia becomes a surgery nurse. They buy a place in toney Stone Ridge, in the Catskill Mountains, and commute to New York City.
After ten years, I quit the Casper Star Tribune, moved to Lander, Wyoming, bought a small cattle ranch, and invested in stocks. Both did well. I retired at sixty-two.
Now, I have a wonderful, ranch-raised Wyoming, Levi's-wearing, cowboy-booted lady, Callie Clarke. She never intrudes, but is here when I need her. Kind, understanding, with calloused hands and a tender heart. She waits patiently, but I am not ready to commit.
Now I am ready to read my brother's letter. I unfold the other sheet. As I read, I hear my brother's voice speaking the words.
"My Dear Brother Lawrence, please read this. I have not told Alicia, because she is no good at this kind of thing. I got some bad news from my cardiologist's last visit. I have had a bad heart for years. I am over the limit on stints and up to the limit on meds. The doc gave me six weeks to three months to live. Before that final curtain, I want to try and square things between us."
"First, neither I nor Alicia planned to become involved. It was purely a case of sympathy becoming affection. In spite of the pain we created, we love each other very much and we both miss you. I am sterile from the accident. Alicia mourns the children we will never raise."
"Mom still will not speak to us. Monica occasionally corresponded with Alicia, until she passed away from pneumonia last year."
"Although I am sometimes a little woozy from the pain medications, I am not delusional. Memories of our childhood together with Mom and Dad occupy all my waking hours and my dreams. Sometimes, late at night, I hear Mom and Dad calling me."
"The most painful dream is about you. We are in our backyard. I am standing on the porch. You are standing under the huge, old apple tree, Dad's heavy, .45 revolver hanging in your hand. You do not berate or condemn me, you just stand in the shade of the tree, silently staring at me with tears staining your cheeks. You raise the revolver and there is a terrible, deafening explosion as you shoot yourself in the chest and stagger back against the tree trunk. There is a spreading, red stain on your shirt. I scream and run to you. Your eyes are open, and you smile at me. I pull you to me, but you are dead. I hear a scream and look back. Our mother is standing on the porch, her hand over her mouth."
"Alicia wakes me. She knows I have had that dream again."
"I have been researching the history of our homeland, Ireland, and a verse from Keats's poem, "The Stolen Child," seemed particularly appropriate at this time:
Away with us he's going,
The solemn eyed:
No more he'll hear the lowing
Of the calves on the warm hillside
Or the kettle on the hob
Sing peace in to his breast,
Or see the brown mice bob
Round and round the oatmeal chest
For he comes, the human child,
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world's more full of weeping than he can understand.
"And lastly, my own offering:
Christ is born, with my life waning
the night is clear, and still
But what light is that shining
Far off, on that high hill
A Christmas tree, small but bright
Shining, glowing, on this Holy night
And a voice, rising, falling
Someone dear, calling, calling
"You're not alone, not alone."
My mother's voice, calling me home, calling me home."
Gaige's voice fell silent. I read his poem again, slowly, absorbing every word.
I set the letter on the counter. I switched off the light and stared, through tears, out the window for a long time at the moon, bright on the deep snow.
I went to the bedroom, sat on my bed, and took my cell phone off the charger. I pushed the button. It took a lot of rings for her to answer.
When Callie croaked a sleepy "Hello?"
I glanced out the window once more. "Listen, I'll pick you up in the morning."
"Wha- what? Where are we going?"
"To Casper. I know a JP there. Wear something nice."
"A JP?"
"Justice of the Peace."
"Wha-?"
"We're getting married tomorrow."
Finito
 Recognized |
#7 April 2023 |
The transitions from present to past are articulated, but may still seem bumpy, my apologies. This story, as with all my efforts, is part from life, part fiction.
Hope you enjoy!
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