> The sun had risen but outside it was still dark; the book was open but the words remained silent. The air felt more like a cage, as I struggled to breathe. She was the one, and without her, there is no one. The coffee pot was full waiting to be drunk. The day was beginning, but had the night ever really ended. The bells on the church mark the passing of time, and by now the doors would open. The friends of Bill would be making coffee for their first meeting. I remember a flier I was once given, it was two sided, but I didn't know that then. The side I was given said: "The hardest thing for a man to change is himself, but when you turned it around it said "The easiest thing for a man to change is himself. It has always puzzled me how truth can be so contradictory.
> It seems like almost yesterday that I had wandered into some church that had some meeting, and free coffee. At the time what they said wasn't too interesting, and most of it still isn't. I didn't step into addiction, so I didn't believe that there were twelve steps out of it. Everyone took time to talk about everything that had changed, but they always struggled the same. In the end I left without a name and no plan on returning. If sobriety looked like that, well it wasn't what I wanted. As I was leaving someone, accidentally named Bill, was inviting people to some other church for some other event. He handed out this pamphlet, with a smile. I never saw that smile again. He went to some church so it had to be just like this church only with a different name.
> It wasn't so easy to change, and maybe, nothing ever really changes. I eventually got clean, but who knows if I have ever really walked away. I always wondered if they called themselves Anonymous because they were ashamed of what they had done. If we can make up a name for ourselves can we make believe our mistakes really didn't cost so much? Eventually, I did find a church, it wasn't that church, but maybe they really are all the same. In the church I found though everyone had a name. It has been a while since I've been back in that church, and not because of the world being locked away. I had stopped going when she had stopped going, though I had started going before she was around. I just don't think I could go back without her sitting there singing those songs.
> It has always been easier to break a habit than to make a habit, and so many habits broke when she got sick. Anger is the loneliest disease I've ever encountered, and this anger is consuming everything. I am not sure how much time has passed because it really doesn't matter. The calendar on the wall still hasn't changed, and I'll never change it again. Sometimes if I look hard enough the pictures on the walls tell their story, animals behaving this way, a smile I can only remember one way. If there was one thing I miss more than anything it would be her voice, it is the silence that feels so lonely. I get up and as I walk to the window it occurs to me the day has become the night again. I wonder sometimes who created time, and why they made it so lonely.
> The clock on the wall said it was a little after seven, it really didn't matter if it was seven in the morning or seven at night. It is strange how early I become so tired, but how wide awake I sit waiting to find sleep. Sometimes in the silence all the words I never said, get said again, and they feel so empty. I can see the Doc, I can see Robs, I can almost feel Lizzy, Have I walked all the way to the end of the story, just to wind up back at when it all began. I never told her too much of who I was, only what I had become. She knew enough of The Old Man, to know he tried to change, but I never gave him a chance. She knew about Lizzy, and Robs as well, just a few simple stories of who they were. I never told her too much about The Doc, I guess his story was too personal.
> I didn't realize how angry I had become at him, until after he had passed away. In the end it seems to be the words we don't say, we end up regretting the most. He knew who he couldn't be, but never understood that is not who I needed him to be. It wasn't a father I needed, I wanted a father, but I needed someone only to care enough to try. If only it was as easy to accept the things you can't change, as it was to forget the things that never changed. As I look back, I can see so clearly, every time I needed him he was there, even the times I wasn't expecting him. He always asked questions and never assumed the answers. I always assumed the worst, of him and everyone else. I always expected love to look a certain way, and it never seemed to ever really look that way.
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...
