Kaleidoscope

3-Stuck In Inbetween

Chapter-3

Alec:

I know its hard

And your delusions control you

But let my love

Wash away your pain

Let me be an antidote

To your poisoned mind

Let me in, my love

Let me ease your silent cries

"You really wrote these?" My father asked as he turned the pages. I nodded. I was as shocked as he was. I was not a poet. I had tried several times and failed. "It's not, what should I say, polished? It's not. But its actually really good. A little feminine but good."

I knew what he was thinking. Did I write the poem with someone in mind?

"It's very deep. You aren't really an emotional writer. It seems like a good change." He said patting my shoulder.

"Here's your cheese omelet. And club sandwich." The waitress said placing the orders in front of us.

We started eating while talking about pipes and plumbing. I can't recall who started the topic or when it even began.

"I brought you something." My father said once we were done eating. He retrieved a paper bag containing, a large frame. "I would advise you to look at it when you're at home." He said with a soft smile. My father always brought me gifts. Mostly crafted by him. He wasn't the most skilled woodworker but he was sufficient.

I nodded.

****

I opened the door to my apartment. Nyla was sitting on the couch watching TV. When she saw me enter she stood up looking excited.

"What did he give you this time?" She asked patting the place next to her. I went ahead and sat down.

"I don't know. Something sentimental I guess." I said shrugging. My father was a simple man. He wasn't a man of words. He was more of a show-than-a-tell guy.

"Oh."

I removed the photo frame and placed the bag on the floor. There were 9 CDs inside the frame instead of a photo.

"What's this? Games?" Nyla asked. "Hunting?" She said reading the words on the first CD. It wasn't about the games. It was about the handwriting. 'Hunting' was written by me when I was, probably, 8 years old. My eyes caught the writing on the CD in the middle which was away from all the rest.

'The Jungle Book'. There was also a drawing of a tree next to it.

I remember the moment I had begged my mother to write it. I was young and naive. I didn't know how to write. My mother was having a bad day. And me pestering her didn't help. Her writing was nothing special. Open. Spaced.

"Is this your mom's handwriting?" She asked pointing at the third CD.

I laughed. "It's my fathers." His handwriting was beautiful. Too girly, too gorgeous. "That's my mom's handwriting." I said with a smile, pointing at the CD, in the middle. I didn't want to stain the glass.

"Oh." Nyla said.

"She was like her handwriting. Honest. Kind. Pure. Too innocent." I said. I never spoke about my mom. I could see Nyla didn't know how to react. "She was an angel." They say people become angels when they die. My mother was an angel even when she was alive. Not because of how pure or kind she was, that too but mostly cause she was more on the other side of the living. Busy walking among the dead.