> I've been up all night; fighting sleep, it's a war, I hope to lose. If there is no sleep there are no dreams. The sun glistens against the frozen tree branches. The bells chime at six, just like everyday. The church was calling the saints to pray, but it seems like I had forgotten the words. I had once gone to a church that shared its name but not their beliefs. I'll never understand how so much changed when I moved from the west side of town to this east-side community. To some the day was about to begin, and to a precious few the sun would go down for the last time. I miss the days when faith was simple and hope wasn't lost.
> There was darkness whispering across this empty room. As if this room could ever be empty. Her last breath was in this room. It was all that was left of who we were. It was all that I could remember. In those last few days, her hands grew cold, yet somehow her touch stayed warm. It seemed her eyes lost their color, but the pain couldn't hide. The harder it got for her to breathe, the harder it became to breathe. She stopped talking, and hoped she had said all she needed to say. The last few nights seemed to pass like the blinking of an eye, but those last few moments lasted for eternitys'. I forget how empty forever can feel.
> I look out the window to watch the darkness begin to fade. After all of these years have I finally learned all Civil Wars are fought till death? There can be no peace treaty; because there can be no surrender. I became who The Old Man had always been, and I couldn't forgive him for it. On the little table beside the bed rests a Bible. The cover has been worn to almost a fingerprint. It's been read well, but has it ever been understood? This morning, I read the story of Peter and I can't help but wonder; what did he see in the eyes of Jesus as he walked upon that raging sea? I wonder if that is what she saw when she closed her eyes for the last time.
> I sit here some nights wondering if God could heal her, why wouldn't He heal her. There are some questions that are really accusations in disguise. Inside that Bible, there is this postcard. It arrived in the mail one day before our wedding day. It was the last one that I would receive; I'll never know if it was the last one he sent. On the front was a colorful picture of a man playing a black and white piano. The words he used sounded like Robert and not the man he became. In simple cursive, he wrote: "Tob's would be nice to hear your voice. 'Robs' I hadn't thought of Bob being Robs, in so long that I had almost forgotten how many smiles we had shared.
> In some of the early letters I tried to tell him the truth, but once again he wouldn't have been able to understand. In the war, I did write to him. I had seen too much evil to keep it all inside. All of the words I wrote eventually became so much of an echo that I stopped saying them. By the time I had made it to California, I tried to write to him, but the words didn't fit on the page of paper I was using. His letters eventually became postcards. Too many lifetimes have passed since Bobby became Bob. I wonder if he thought he could just change his name and become someone brand new. Then again I remember how many names I've been known by.
> Every year, I would send a birthday card to Robert. It was the one day of childhood that I hoped I would always remember. I may not have ever deserved his friendship, but in the end there is no question about his friendship. He was genuine, maybe he really didn't know how to be anything else. Once his letters tried to describe The Old Man in a way I just couldn't see him in. There was no need to write back. I don't know why I am so angry, sometimes it comes in waves replacing this grief. I looked at that postcard and I began to remember the laughter Robs and I had shared. I put the postcard at the end of the Bible in between some pages as I felt the smooth worn leather.
> This Bible though is perhaps the single greatest gift I've ever received. The Old Man left it to me, that, and a few other household items. He put a letter in the Bible, right at the beginning. The envelope held a single name Toby, I never went by that name, but that never stopped him from using it. Someday I would have to read it, but I wasn't sure why. On the first page, there were faded names and dates that spanned generations. What should've been the last name was Suzanne McFadden. Underneath her large cursive letters were small sloppy brick letters spelling the name Tobias Mc (NAME). In the end maybe he really did change.
YOU ARE READING
Ghosts' of November
Historical Fiction"Ghost's of November" is a haunting exploration of love, loss, and the relentless pursuit of redemption. The story delves into the life of a protagonist who is trapped by memories of a troubled past, seeking peace in a world that offers little solac...
