> The sun had long ago risen as the misty gray clouds slowly walked across the sky. I feel so out of place in this world of color as I've become lost to a world of black and white dreams. I had looked at Old Doc's photo a few nights back, the one with him pretending to smile behind the muzzle of his rifle. He didn't tell too many stories, but I could tell he was proud of his service. I wonder how many words he spoke that I didn't get the chance to hear. I guess after some point in our lives we only begin to hear what we want to hear. I didn't understand that he was black, and how that changed everything for him. I never did ask him why he didn't get married or have kids. I guess we mostly talked about the life I was lost in.
> If I could go back to when it all began, if I could back and hear her say hello for the first time, maybe then it would all be worth it. Maybe I just wanted to see her smile for the first time. When our worlds collided as simple kites flew in the chilly air, I didn't know then but the world ended. I had to go back to a time when I still remembered all that could never be forgotten. The trolly would start to run within the hour, and I didn't want to be late. I see the picture on the right side of the mirror. If only she still had a voice then I would know I am still loved. I poured steaming coffee into the old gray canister, it was the first gift she had ever given. It once said something about something, but those words had long since faded.
> There is a little yellow bag hanging in the shadows in the back of the closet. It has traveled all throughout San Fran, but mostly in places she would never go. When I moved in the bag became hers, and it stopped carrying the secrets I stopped trying to hide. I pulled a book out of the shelf last night as I planned for this trip, it's cover was well worn, and its pages were bent this way and that to keep the story in line with where I was reading. It is amazing how much the bag weighs, but not because of what it carried. It was chilly enough in February that the coffee wouldn't be out of place. I never spent too much time re-watching movies that had been seen those stories never changed, but everytime I read a story, it seemed to change.
> I enjoyed walking down the stairs of our building, they walked in a circle that never ended until you found the sidewalk. It was in the middle of the morning rush, but that rush had become silent to all but a few. It felt strange how quickly the busiest city in the world had become a ghost town. I was never much of one for conversation, but she was, she could talk to a brick wall. She made friends no matter what adventure we were lost in. On one of our first walks through the park, she stopped to talk to this little lady who was lost. I couldn't hear the words, but I could see the tears. I didn't have the courage to ask her what she had said, I didn't want to cry too. She never met a stranger, but she never really did have all that many friends.
> It was just a few blocks down the road to get to where the trolly stopped. As strange as it sounds, it was her kite that I first noticed, it was like a red diamond floated carelessly in the sky, in the rain or in the sun. I once thought it would be too perfect if her name was Lucy. As I pass the bridge I turn right for the last two blocks and zip up the old blue sweater. It was her smile that I noticed on accident. If I didn't see that smile, I am not sure if I would've ever said hello. I always arrived fifteen minutes early, and the trolley always seems to be running fifteen minutes late. They had painted little yellow feet and used caution tape to remind us where it was safe to stand. There were two other people standing, but I chose to sit.
> It's funny how small talk and conversation can mean something so different, and yet feel just like the same thing. She never said hello out of habit, but said hello to everyone. Too bad there were only a few people here and there that stood still long enough to say it back. She said: "Everyone has a story that needs to be told, but not everyone has someone who will listen." We are only on the fifth stop on the way to the park, but by now the trolly is empty. The first few times I had seen her she didn't look up long enough to say hello, but then again neither did I. I'll get out on the ninth stop, and walk the last block into the trees. I think what I miss most since all of the worlds had changed is the sound of children's laughter.
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...
