I may not live to see our glory

5 ~ Poem writing and memories

"Hey John, my ninth birthday is coming up!"

I paused from my daily practice of trying to touch things.

"Hm? Oh, yes, I remember. What do you have in mind?"

Philip was scribbling on a piece of paper, pausing now and again to think.

"I'm trying to write a poem that I'm going to read to papa. Wanna hear it?"

"Sure! I bet it's amazing! William Shakespeare himself is quaking in his boots at the power of Philip the poet and his unstoppable flow of words!"

Philip gasped, furiously scribbling.

"That's it! Thanks, uncle John!"

Wait, uncle?

"Glad to be of help, little soldier!"

I jumped in a mock-battle stance, waving around an imaginary sword, and accidentally bumping into a table. Oops.

Wait, I touched it! That's only happened a few times before! The night I vowed to protect Hamilton, and then only a couple of times later, when I was full of nothing but love for the Hamiltons.

Could that be the wall that kept me away from them, destined to be alone with no one except a lone child seeing me?

But it could also be the intense, vivid feeling of longing, longing to be a part of a family, and the sadness that came with it.

How would I know unless I tested it out?

Tensing every part of my body, I concentrated on the memories of my past life, meeting Alexander, Lafayette and Mulligan, drinking at the bar, shouting in the town square until our throats were sore and our voices gone. The memories still imprinted crystal-clear in my mind, Alexander brighter, sharper and clearer in each of them like never before. The emotions came flooding back, a tsunami crashing and whirling through my thoughts, as the torrent of memories swirled on. We advocated against slavery and for the revolution, our voices drowning out Seabury's and our quills furiously scratching the paper.

I recalled the Winter's ball of 1780, when Alex had his eye on someone else. Angelica and Elizabeth Schuyler had caught his eye and he appeared to be entranced by their beauty and charm. Of course. I had thought. He wanted someone who could give him beauty and charm, not a hopeless fool like me.

But still Alexander delivered, writing letter after letter with his affections to me, some containing rather...how to say...inappropriate content. I reminisced back to those days where I would laugh, and tuck those letters in my breast pocket, close to my heart. They gave my days purpose, but little did I know that my dear Alexander was also sending letters to his dear Eliza. We grew slightly more distant as he continued to court Eliza, and before I knew it, asking for her hand in marriage. How could you do this? You promised me that your love was reserved for no one other than me, and yet here you are, lovestruck as you hand me an invitation to your wedding, not the slightest bit of regret in your eyes.

And so you went your way, and I went mine. You married Eliza, I married Martha. But my heart still longed for you, and it still does! My heart only belongs to you, my dear Alex!

"Uh...John? Are you okay? You seem, more solid, more like a normal human. Do you want to read my poem?"

I looked down at myself, and discovered that Philip was right! I did, indeed, look a little more opaque! Instead of my usual grey, pallid form, gunshot wound hidden by my coat, colour had returned to me. The only remaining trace of my fatal wound was a faded red splotch on my shirt, that no longer needed to be hidden by my blue coat. I looked more like myself as I was before battle, not the sad old husk that I had been for the past 8 years. Yes! I was one step closer to letting people know of my presence.