> It had been almost a year since we received the phone call we were expecting. It came on a Monday, these kinds of days always seem to happen on Monday's. The doctor was friendly enough. He had memorized this speech to detach his heart from the process. Before the doctor's visit, we were expecting the news, all the signs were there. Even though we were expecting it, it still took our breath away. We promised we wouldn't hold our breath. For the first few months, we lived up to the promise. Slowly the sun began to fade, and darkness began to surround us.
> She would still smile, I don't think I ever understood how much pain she was in. It had only been nine months since Khrysti had called in the dead of the night. I wonder why the world chooses to tell its darkest secrets when no one is around to listen. By then we were laying in bed and holding hands; trying to say the words we thought would be important when she was gone. I had always been a story teller, and she knew the friend Robert was not the memory I allowed him to become. Khrysti only said a few words about how I should've come to see him while he was still alive, but I owed it to him to be there for his funeral.
> Robert wasn't just some friend I had in childhood, he was the only friend I ever really called a friend. In the middle of the jungle, some of those guys became brothers, but none of them ever became a friend. To most, he was simply the kid that was always out of place, but he just didn't care. He never combed his hair, and his clothes, though in good condition never matched. He once said: "why should I color in the lines of everyone else." We were only close as children, we didn't grow apart, we just stopped growing together. He wasn't much older than me, but then again age really has little to do with life when it ends.
> He wrote more letters than I cared to read, and I wrote far fearer letters than he wanted. Somehow he didn't get drafted, I guess he knew some secrets most didn't. When I was off in the middle of hell fighting for what I didn't even know. He stayed behind and became the man he was born to become. In college, he had fallen in love with literature and began to read everything written about the times when the sun was a god, and mummies became their legacy. I could almost hear his voice as I remembered all the conversations we had once shared. After that phone call, I stayed up much of that first night and well into the second night
> There were two deaths for the price of one, and I was stuck in the middle. If you never say hello you never have to say goodbye. Sadly though, goodbye's like death always come. I didn't say hello to Robert in the beginning, so now in the end I didn't want to say goodbye. I wasn't so sure I could travel, and I doubt he expected I would be there. I was just a whisper in his life, just some story about a childhood now lost. I didn't answer the second time she called. What more than an apology can someone be given in moments like that? Looking back, it might've been good to go and say the words that never seemed to come out quite right.
> Life happens much too fast. One day you are young and the next you are old. It is somewhere in the middle where age happens. Before I went to sleep that night I knew I wasn't going. If I hadn't said it by now, then I guess it was never meant to be said. Some goodby's last lifetimes, and some cost lifetimes. I said goodbye in a letter with a few words about the weather. His letters only went unanswered 4 times before he stopped writing. I read every word he wrote, I just didn't know how to answer them. He thought there was more to life than war, and I was only a soldier.
> I look out the window from time to time to watch the world race by; with the speed of sound falling behind. I've heard some say that silence can lead to madness. I must be mad; there was a calendar on the wall that said it was still May. The old moon that was hiding under a November sky said spring had long ago passed. If it were possible to be in two places at the same moment in time, could two choices lead to the same ending of time? It feels so helpless to be stuck in a memory that never changes, not even the pain it causes ever changes. So much life can happen in seven months.
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Ghosts' of November
Ficción histórica"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...
