The Shoebox

There are no friendly ghosts.  Just angry ones. 

I ran to the home of the girl who was raped the night before.  This debate of what to say played in my head.  It was last year, let's move on, I thought.  Then I realized, it all occured after midnight.

I could have married her, I sometimes think.
I should have, at the very least, kissed her.

And the image of what she looked like has been erased from my mind.  She was taller than me.  Not in some awkward way but more model-like.  She was beautiful; that I know. 

A few years later, she gave birth to twins and only the twins left that hospital.  I heard it was a brain aneurysm during labor.  They tried to warn her months before.  Then, they tried to save her.  She is probably the best mother I've ever known.  That could be construed as hyperbole.  That's not my intention.

Those twins; they're out of college.  They've got their mother's character and good genes. 

I wouldn't mind a few minutes with them to recollect but I don't remember much; just an unfortunate crime and a shoebox of handwritten letters she mailed to me.  She only lived two miles away. 

And those letters; they seem a lifetime ago written to someone almost like me. 

I read them for the first time in twenty eight years.  I didn't even know I had them.  They just kind of reappeared during a random search for something else.  My first instinct was to hold one of the letters up to my nose as if I would recapture a familiar scent. 

Then I read her affectionate words.

Of course, there was a lump in my throat.  That's natural.  But I couldn't determine if it was because those words came from her or if it was simply nice to be reminded that I am loveable.  Even if it was what seems a lifetime ago. 

I started to ask myself:  why do we seem to always dismiss those younger than us?  Why do we think that being in love is some adult thing and everything before adulthood is just a meaningless crush or phase? 

My younger self would resist this belief that my current self knows better than him.  I may be wiser now but I'm more careful, less carefree, less intense, more guarded, less affectionate, and more cynical.  I think my younger self was more loveable than my current self because I loved with less judgment and more vulnerability.

I look at the first letter on top of several in this dusty old shoebox and it's dated September 14th, 1987. 
Two years before I would last see her.  Three and a half months before that unfortunate crime.  Four years before giving her twins the gift of life.  Four years before she left us. 

And twenty eight years before she would remind me that not all ghosts are angry.






 

Farewell, Mr. G

We can try to prepare ourselves for the inevitable.  We look down upon the faces of the sick, of the dying, of those who are now not even given a puncher's chance to make it and we tell ourselves we will be ready. 

Ask anyone who has lost a parent or a sibling or a partner or a friend in a long drawn out goodbye how they felt when it was all over.  They'll tell you.

Even the least deluded of people cannot fully prepare themselves for the inevitable. 

11:45 yesterday morning, this theory was put to test.

We all knew Mr. G's time was running out.  Hell, he knew it.  Last Christmas, he was full of life and joy as his loved ones spent the holiday with him.  Everyone in that room knew it was his last Christmas.  It's just a matter of time, we said.  Of course, that's true with all of us. 

When I receieved the phone call yesterday, my heart skipped a beat.  There was a lump in my throat.  Really, I couldn't even talk.  It wasn't surprising he finally let go.  Despite failing health and his lack of will to go on, it still smacked all of us like a ton of bricks in the face. 

The inevitable became reality and it felt like it came out of nowhere.

It seems silly to mourn a man in his nineties; a man I barely knew.  A part of me thinks mourining is just a self-serving word for honoring.  Mourning implies how I am affected; how all of us left behind feel.  Honoring makes it about him and the life well lived he led.

So, despite this selfish need to mourn a man I barely knew yet impacted me in ways I can never fully articulate, I just want to honor Mr. G.


The older a man gets, the more he begins to sound like Morgan Freeman reading a mad lib.  He may not be making much sense but damn, is he calming.  Thats how it was during a conversation with Mr. G.

He was a kind man of exceptional character.  He fought in World War II and was married close to sixty years before his wife had to leave.  From the day she left this temporary world, he spoke of her in present tense.  His love for her only grew each day and the mere mention of her name would invigorate him.  He couldn't wait to see her again yet didn't want to give up on living because that would have disappointed her. 

Mr. G would have made her proud despite these last few months.

Last week, I was fortunate enough to see him.  His skin resembled an old elephant; grayish blue and leathery.  His urine was the color of Guiness.  He could barely speak.  He just laid in bed as each body organ, one by one, started to shut down.

The last image of him I will forever hold dear was the moment he feebly reached out his hand to his son whom sat by his side over the last few weeks.  His son grabbed his hand and they prayed together. 

And a single tear rolled down Mr. G's cheek.


When someone leaves us, the last thing we want is to be immersed into a sea of cliches.  He's in a better place.  Maybe.  At least, his suffering is gone.  Obviously.  Now, he can be with his wife for eternity.  Specualtion. 
I'm sorry for your loss.  Our loss.

The world lost a great man.  One of the last from the greatest generation this country has ever known.


It was an honor to know him.


Farewell, Sir.

Monkey See

When a believer in nothing leaves us, does he come face to face with Jesus?  Does extended grace allow one to plead their case or left to chase the one who deceived us? 

Who strips away the arrogance and chips apart the evidence to recognize a creator?  If a believer in nothing could come back, would they become a martry and crusader?

Monkey see, monkey do.  Truth becomes merely taboo. 

Who's the sinner?  Who's the saint?  Same old problem, new complaint.  Without hope, there are no consequences.  There are no good deeds, no offenses. 

Believer in nothing, still holding on.  Barely afloat, his ship is gone. 

Monkey see, monkey do.  You go down with me, I drown with you. 
Believer in nothing will not be rescued.

Believer in nothing has nothing to gain and everything to lose. 


Monkey see, monkey do.  Free wills' residue.

dear atom bomb

fearless fetus waiting in the womb
skull crushing instrument arrives to make room
while all the people argue over right and wrong
i'm going to write a letter to the atom bomb

dear atom bomb,
please come soon
fearless fetus is not safe in the womb

narcissistic emperor sitting on his throne
pugilistic martyr fighting all alone
orwellian nightmare keeps the saints up at night
dear atom bomb
how did wrong become right?

intelligent fool says faith is not enough
what is evident cannot be seen with eyes wide shut
dear atom bomb
wake us before we self destruct

intelligent fool doesn't see the artist
behind a sky painted blue
intelligent fool doesn't recognize the perfect order
encompassing me and you

dear second coming
please be true

Open Door Policy

Rumor has it, they're separated.

I heard it from a mutual friend.  Coincidentally, not ironically, he knew before me.  I suppose there are many reasons for this.  He's done a better job at staying in touch with all those people from what seems a life time ago.  He hasn't done that one thing I am guilty of:   disappearing.

My first reaction incidentally was a quick ego riddled unspoken I told you so.  I saw this coming before they married.  I imagined this day even when I became an ordained minister for the sole purpose of uniting them under God.  But, I also, hoped I would be wrong.

He's fallen off the face of the map, the mutual friend tells me.  No one can find him.  No one will say anything about what happened or his whereabouts. 
The mutual friend adds, Should we be worried?

No, I reply.

I wasn't in the mood to explain how he is to the mutual friend.  No one knows him better than me.  And I don't say that to brag or to remind him all I have been through with this old friend.

I doubt he will ever surface again.  Reconciliation or not.  He's the kindest man I have ever known.  He wears his heart on his sleeve even to his own detriment. 

I think about him all the time.  Our last conversation took place about five years ago and it lasted six hours in the middle of the night as his wife was out of town.   Every conversation I've ever had with him, I've treated it as if it would be our last one.  And it's because; well, it doesn't matter.



Just over a week ago, I was sitting at a three legged desk in a gritty hotel room. taking inventory of my life.  I found out who my real friends are.... 

Nothing replaces old friends.

With old friends, regardless of time in between conversations, the door is always open.


Rumor has it, he's disappeared. 

There is so much I want to say to him.  Probably nothing different than the last time we spoke or all the times before that.

During our last conversation, we were discussing the passing of an old friend.  He couldn't make the funeral so I filled him in on all the details.  More specifically, how the church was overflowing with people.  I mentioned that three school buses showed up with high schoolers whom he coached and taught. They all came to pay their final respect.

There was silence on the other end of the phone. 

I knew he was crying because that's what he always did.  He's always been a big crybaby. 

When he regained his composure, he said, It's just so ironic.

I knew what he meant.


I will never understand why some of us become more introverted as we grow older.  I don't know why some of us isolate ourselves when we need people the most.  It always seems those who are most loved are the same people who remain the most distant.

I wish I knew how to change that.

I love the open door policy afforded to us by old friends. 

It's a shame we rarely use it.

Endless Loop

At some point, everyone got busy. 

And I just watched the world pass me by.

I fell asleep like I often do when things become too heavy.  I had this dream about heaven.  It wasn't an actual place, though.  It was nothing but all of the best memories I have; tied together in an endless loop.  I had this belief that heaven might be overpopulated but I came to realize, it only consists of a handful of people.

And a dog.  One dog.

It was around the three minute mark when I reached the apex of heaven.  It was these countless I love yous coming from only a few mouths.  Despite so few people who have uttered those three words to me over the span of my life, those three words held a deeper significance than I ever realized.  Once upon a time, I could count on hearing that phrase daily.  Then, one day, it stopped.  I thought how did I become so unloveable?  What changed about me?  In heaven, we don't get answers to those questions because self doubt or even, self loathing isn't included in that endless loop. 

I woke up and my heart was indescribably heavy.  I had forgotten so many names and faces.  I suppose I got so busy and the world just passed me by.

I stretched out my arm to reach my phone.  I desperately wanted to call those people I had just visited in that endless loop.  I couldn't.  For so many different reasons. 

At some point, everyone got busy.  Me, included. 

And the world just passed us by.

Untold Stories: Full Circle

You questioned my ability to recollect history; almost to the point where you insinuated I was a revisionist.  I dismissed your claim because I know, you were speaking from a place of humility.

Sure, words can be flattering.  Seeing yourself through the eyes of another can either be enlightening or shocking.  Depends, I suppose on your self perception.


I was missing for about a month.  Not Amber Alert missing or warranting a space on a milk carton.  I simply vacated my typical routine.  Some noticed.  You noticed.  Your simply inquiry on my departure only confirmed what I've been telling you for over a year.  Both publicly and privately.


Let's stick to the theme that this was an adventure; when in reality, it was chaotic, stressful and a huge blow to my pride. 

I sat down at this 3 legged desk in a gritty hotel room.  I wanted to articulate how destructive pride can be.  So, I started writing because that's what I do.  That's when I am at my most vulnerable and honest.  Pride ceases to exist when I begin to write.  I suppose that's why I need this outlet.

I began, Pack your pride.  Let's go for a ride to nowhere. 
Then I stopped.

I like to get all wordy and rhymy because it's the most challenging for me.  But in this specific instance, I simply stopped after these two sentences.  I suppose I had some breakthrough and realized overkill wasn't necessary at this moment.  Those two sentences really said everything I needed to say at that moment. 

I am not good at brevity.  As you know.

During this adventure, I had a lot of time to reflect.  Most of my thoughts centered around the future and where do I go from here but I would be remiss if I didn't mention I thought about you.  No, I did not dwell on those unanswerable questions like what if nor did I feel a need to bask in your empathy and concern. 

I simply thought about your kindness.

I was right about you 25 years ago and I am still right today.

It's taken me over a year, in bits and pieces, to allow you to see yourself through my eyes.  These last three months, we have come full circle which culminated in your kindness that I spoke about in my first piece about you and for you.

I've got so many stories I will never get to share with you and I am sure you've got plenty more than me. 




http://hurlramone.blogspot.com/2014/04/untold-stories.html
http://hurlramone.blogspot.com/2014/05/untold-stories-numerology.html
http://hurlramone.blogspot.com/2014/05/untold-stories-home-sweet-home.html
http://hurlramone.blogspot.com/2014/05/untold-stories-orphan-year.html
http://hurlramone.blogspot.com/2014/05/untold-stories-final-chapter.html
http://hurlramone.blogspot.com/2014/06/untold-stories-secret.html
http://hurlramone.blogspot.com/2014/06/untold-stories-epilogue.html
http://hurlramone.blogspot.com/2015/05/untold-stories-adventures-in-chevy-nova.html