The Twins

Judge Abner Black sat quietly looking at the two boys, studying in amazement how different they were and how much more different they seemed after many months of a gruelling trial.

The flocks of media had gathered in the front parking lot like sea gulls because today was the date Judge Black set for sentencing the twins. Josh, the smaller boy, was relieved but nervous as he huddled close to their attorney.
Lenny, however, with arms crossed over his chest, was openly more defiant; frowning, exchanging stares with the judge and his brother. Lenny spoke up to the judge. “How in the hell do you think you can possibly do this? You can’t give us separate sentences. It’s not possible,” Lenny sneered “Josh needs me and I need him. We both need to go together or not at all.” But the judge was sympathetic to the boys and ignored Lenny’s outburst. Josh was too embarrassed to comment or look at the Judge. “Typical of Lenny,” Josh thought out loud. “Just like him. He’s going to make it bad.”

Twins Josh and Lenny were born in a small Midwestern country hospital before World War II. This was a time when illegitimate children and single mothers were shunned; especially girls who got pregnant in a small, Southern Baptist town. The mother died from complications in childbirth during an emergency caesarean section; a complex and dangerous procedure that had never been performed by her young doctor before. Her death, although untimely, spared her years of humiliation from neighbours and towns-folks. The twins, however, would be destined to suffer a degrading and humiliating existence.

They were immediately given up to the local social services for foster care. This was a difficult proposition given the fact they were twins and couldn’t be given out to separate foster homes. That was more responsibility than most people were prepared to take on. But some couples tried.

The boys suffered many miserable years as they were handed from one foster home to another. Lenny became the dominant one and Josh the weaker; forced by his brother into submission. Lenny was difficult, often creating stressful conditions that most foster parents found intolerable. Social workers were becoming desensitised, ignoring them as they grew older and frequently rejected them as unmanageable.

Then there were professional foster parents, Ira and Joan Crutchfield, who would do anything for money; who had undertaken a few difficult cases before but none quite like Lenny and Josh. That challenge appealed to them because they really didn’t care and knew how to handle difficult teenagers; they simply locked them away in the basement and out of sight until they succumbed to hunger or loneliness. They gratefully accepted the challenge the two teen age boys posed, especially when they were paid considerably more for their trouble; more than they would have been paid to take care of the usual child.

Whatever Lenny wanted, Lenny got and what Lenny got Josh would also get. Lenny didn’t mind standing up to their abusive foster parents, which often resulted in harsh punishments like the dark basement, and Josh was forced to go along or he would suffer Lenny’s anger for days. Josh was too timid to argue with his brother or foster parents. His physical frailties made him unable to defend himself and wherever Lenny went, Josh followed doing as he was told. As time passed in the Crutchfield household, their lives became more tormented as Lenny’s attitude became more brazen. “They were being home schooled,” the Crutchfields reported to occasional visitors from county agencies, “Because they simply couldn’t get along in public schools and they’re doing quite well.”

Home visits from Miss Sterling, County Child Services agent, became frequent but the boys were never seen alone with her. Miss Sterling seemed to have taken a special interest in the twins and made many visits to discuss them with the Crutchfield’s. As the visits became more frequent the boys would be ushered out of the room and locked away where they couldn’t be seen or heard. At least, they felt, this kept them from the silent threats of the Crutchfield’s. The boys did notice that Miss Sterling began to visit Ira more frequently when Joan was away from the house. Ira was becoming friendlier and as she left he would be close behind, to open her car door, assuring her that all was well with the twins.
“I’m tired of this shit,” sneered Lenny as they watched from their bedroom window as Ira make over Miss Sterling, “We’re not going to be locked away like some rabid animals any more.”
“How’re you going to stop it? We’re locked in all the time.”
“Stop your God-damn whining and leave it to me. I’ve always work things out, haven’t I?” Lenny reminded Josh, “You’re too damn weak. If it weren’t for me we’d be worse off than we are, and besides, I’ve got a plan to get even.” That scared Josh. He knew once Lenny got an idea in his head trouble would follow so all he could do was grit his teeth and hope it wouldn’t turn out too bad.

With a pessimistic outlook, and convoluted opinions created by years of foster home abuses, Lenny had made up his mind years before that he would have to be the stronger of the two. Despite his roughness he felt a deep love for his brother and it was his brotherly obligation to protect Josh from abuse no matter the consequences. It also enabled him to prevent any public humiliation that his brother’s weakness would cause them.

Josh was puny and their situation was bad enough without other people looking at them as puny and weak. So Lenny became overly aggressive by demonstrating his strength and single mindedness. Josh had been forced into submission over the years. Both were now realizing that their door to independent manhood was fast approaching. How would they handle it?

Entering adulthood with the Crutchfield made Lenny more contentious as time neared for their self-determination. As they reflected on the difficult years behind them there was a certain amount of relief that at long last living with the beastly Crutchfield’s was soon to end. But now they were faced with new obstacles; the time when they would be expected to make it on their own. Although it scared Lenny he would deny it when asked by his brother. The thoughts of finding a solid, rational footing for their freedom weighed heavily on Josh’s mind but Lenny’s power over Josh convinced them both and with it a deeper sense of relief and hope.

The closer to the time of release for the twins, there became frequent, problematic moments of discipline with Lenny that made Josh wish he could leave his brother. Lenny’s meanness grew, fed by the frequent beatings from Ira. Josh knew he could not survive on his own. He was powerless and so he endured. It would soon be over.

Young and attractive, Miss Sterling began visiting the Crutchfields more frequently as the boys neared their release date. And Ira found many reasons to visit her office concerning the twins because they were approaching the day when they would no longer be living with them; there were arrangements that had to be made, he told Joan, with the social services people.

During the days following his visits with Miss Sterling, Ira would be unusually pleasant. The boys noticed that he was smiling more often and to the twins it became apparent that he was trying to hide something. Now was their opportunity. Lenny grinned and Josh shuddered.

Many times in the past, Lenny had gotten them both in trouble many times before by stealing, fighting with foster parents. In one case he severely beat one man into a near coma as Josh watched helplessly. Nor were family household pets exempt from Lenny’s angry eruptions as he became more vicious; many disappeared. Whatever trouble Lenny got into so did Josh. The courts were very familiar with the twins but because of their circumstances the judges were sympathetic. Now the time approached when the two boys were expected to take responsibilities for their lives; put out of the Crutchfield home to face the world on their own. But not before Lenny had the last word.

Despite Josh’s weak objections, Lenny outlined his plan for a spectacular prank against Ira and Joan Crutchfield before they were to be set free to be on their own.
“Do you remember why the Crutchfields wanted us here?” Lenny asked Josh. “They didn’t want children of their own because the State paid good money for foster care,” Lenny sneered. “We’re just merchandise to them and nothing more.”

Josh remembered just how often Joan told Ira that, having children was not profitable. She hated the thoughts of having children and the burden of such a responsibility, not to mention the cost. Foster care was their business. Foster kids were a disposable commodity; they could abandon the ones that were too difficult, too old or independent, or get paid well for the more bizarre, such as Lenny and Josh.

And so Joan took extraordinary precautions not to jeopardize their lucrative business, or her figure, by becoming pregnant. This included making sure that she had an abundant supply of every known birth control device known to man for those rare moments and keeping Ira at arms length; in his own bedroom. There would never be the slightest chance she could get pregnant, she would see to that.

The resulting disappointment Ira felt from his almost sexless marriage had made the boy’s life even more miserable and he would beat them whenever he needed to vent his sexual frustrations. But with Ira’s interest in Miss Sterling and her recent interest in them, Ira had not been quite so active with his beatings; only when Joan felt they needed one.

Josh listened intently as Lenny detailed his plan of revenge to Josh. Both boys knew that Joan kept a vast supply of birth control paraphernalia in a secret place under her hat boxes in the bedroom closet; a discovery made when they peered through the keyhole one rainy day curious about the moans and shouts from Ira. And they also discovered that Ira kept his hidden a secret place behind the books in the study.

Since they were not permitted outside, their resource for revenge was limited. Lenny detailed his twisted plan, Josh laughed and agreed the prank was, kind of neat.
One day when Joan was shopping and Ira fell asleep in front of the TV, after a long visit from Miss Sterling, the boys crept into the birth control supplies wielding straight pins.
“We’ll poke small invisible holes,” Lenny demonstrated to Josh, “and they won’t know what happened until it’s too late. Then we’ll replace Joan’s birth control pills with aspirins.” As they quickly worked they imagined what was going to happen and the thoughts made both boys laugh. Any nastiness they sustained in the meantime would be nothing compared to how Joan and Ira would feel in a month or two.

Months passed and to the Crutchfields, the twins seemed unusually happy despite the grief that was inflicted on them daily. Ira and Joan became suspicious that the boys were up to no good. When they were questioned about their good moods they refused to answer so Ira locked them in the basement. Then as suddenly as she began her visits, Miss Sterling stopped. Ira appeared worried then agitated when she didn’t call or visit. Something was wrong and he just knew the twins were responsible so he resumed his pre-Miss Sterling beatings.

The day the twins had been hoping for finally arrived. Joan got pregnant, became distraught, sought counselling, cried, paced the floor and unsuccessfully sought medical help to end the pregnancy. This was the ‘60’s and doctors just would not do abortions. Then Miss Sterling came by once to see Ira. Lenny and Josh saw she had gained a lot of weight and Ira became very nervous. Soon he began to drink and stayed away from the house with greater frequency returning home late. Loud arguments filled the nights. Lenny and Josh were beside themselves with satisfaction at the predicaments they created with a straight pin and aspirins and pleased that they were finally able to get some justice for the terrible conditions they were forced into; conditions they had no control over.
“Think of it Josh,” Lenny giggled; “the Crutchfields are going to have their own kids now and no longer have kids only for profit. Now they have to pay.” The boys couldn’t help but laugh as the Crutchfields dilemma deepened and Joan and Miss Sterling began to plump out. Joan became deeply troubled and depressed over the loss of her figure, the expenses of having kids. Then Joan found out about Ira and Miss Sterling. “What a name?” she thought, “Miss Sterling isn’t so sterling after all.”

Ira and Joan separated after she discovered Ira’s liaisons with Miss Sterling. The twins returned to Social Services where they were to remain until they became of age. A date for a court hearing was made to make sure the twins would receive any help they required before their release. Because of Lenny’s inability to stay out of trouble the Judge would study their case closely and make any exceptions to their unusual circumstances he felt necessary. They were still wards of the court.

It was the first day of many deliberations that would last for months. Judge Black was considered the best choice for determining the disposition of the twins and he carefully read the volumes of information presented by the State. It was apparent to the Judge that Lenny was the more calculating and aggressive and Josh the mild, sensitive, and dependant brother. Now it was time for him to pass a landmark judgement. Judge Abner Black had both boys stand.
“Boys,” he began, “Because Mrs. Crutchfield had twins of her own last week, Mr. Crutchfield has left town, and Miss Sterling is well on her way to having her child, you have become wards of the court and under the care and supervision of Social services.” The judge paused while he shuffled some important looking papers and Lenny noticed what he thought was a smile on the judges mouth. “I guess maybe the judge isn’t all that bad,” Lenny whispered to Josh. “And,” he continued, “I can find no reason for you not to be happy about leaving the Crutchfield home. But now we must see to your best interests. The court recognises your birthday is just a few days away but because you are still under the age of eighteen, it is the court’s responsibility to do what is best for you both.” He paused again. “Damn, I wished he would get on with it,” Lenny whispered. The judge looked at Josh and began.
“Josh, you are to serve six months in the State mental health facility to receive counselling and training that will enable you to become independent of Lenny, get a job, and start a life of your own. Lenny you are to be committed to the same mental health facility but in a different ward and away from Josh.” Both boys gasped not believing their ears.
“The term of your detention,” he continued with Lenny, “will be determined by your progress and, when released, you are not to visit Josh for at least one year. Is that clear?”

Lenny chuckled to himself. He knew the judge couldn’t do this. It’s impossible but he nodded in agreement anyway. The judge noticed Lenny’s sneer and continued, “Had you boys been brought to this court a few years ago I would not have been able to pass this judgement on you,” he paused again. “Recent medical advances have enabled doctors and hospitals to successfully separate Siamese twins joined only at the hip and once apart you boys will begin serving your sentences. Court adjourned.”

Lenny gasped, Josh laughed, and both boys were escorted, speechless, from the courtroom.

Freedom

"Do you know what it feels like to be free, I mean really free?" The white haired man asked Jamie as they stood looking out over the frozen great lake. Waves trapped in crystalline motion slapped silently, motionlessly against the dock. She pulled up what was left of her tattered wool winter jacket, thin armour against the bone chilling cold. It had been a long time since she was warm, in any true way. Nestled in the straw at the bottom of a box car she had not been cold but not really comfortable either. To escape the chill she let her mind wander over the old mans question. Free, was she free now? Had she ever been free? At sixteen she had left that place her father called home, but two years on the road hadn't seemed to set her free of him. She heard his and the chorus of her peoples’ voices echoing in her head every time she took action, always the same chorus of disapproval. Through the long pause, as she felt around the word "free", the old man watched her with his foggy cataract eyes, watched and waited.
"No," she finally said "I don't reckon I do know what it feels like."
"That my dear, is because it feels like nothing at all." He said, a sly sparkle flashing in his eyes. "Do you imagine the fish notice the water around them?"
"They do if they get caught in the damn ice."
"Exactly." he said with that warm smile that made her feel like a smart student. "It is in fact the bars or more to the point, what's beyond the bars by which the prisoner defines freedom. Help me to a warm place to lie down and I'll tell you a story, one I know you'll understand."
Maybe it was the way he had walked out onto the rotting wood dock, holding the rail and stumbling blindly along that made her feel sorry and protective of him. Or maybe it was a less valorous motive, loneliness. Taking his arm she guided him through the cold empty streets, up to an abandoned building she was calling home this week.
A high brick wall and the decaying building behind protected the courtyard from the chill winds. It was here that she built a fire from scavenged lumber, piling on more than usual. Small fires attracted less notice and discovery always meant moving on. But tonight she wanted to be warm; she wanted her aging guest to be warm. As the wood caught, flames leapt up, and warm air surrounded them. Fire light licked at the crumbling brick building exposing the now dormant ivy that hung on waiting for spring. Looking up she saw their shadows, tall as protective giants looming over them. It made her feel less insignificant, like maybe she did exist. So often in the streets people refused to even meet her eyes, as if she were a ghost. She used her invisibility to her advantage, like this morning when she had stolen the can of tuna soup out of the back of a market. The box boy having his smoke in the back alley had averted his eyes, noticing her might imply having to take some action about her ragged condition.
As the old man gobbled down the soup, letting bits spill into his white beard, she wondered when he had last eaten. On the road she had met many drunkards who forwent food in search of the numbing bliss of drink. She felt no pity or compassion for them. The only difference between them and the drunken raging of her father were mere economics. But this man, what had he done to deserve so harsh a punishment?
The old man leaned back. Dropping the empty can to blacken in the roaring fire, he closed his eyes. Jamie watched him for a long time, had he fallen asleep? If he had, she hoped for him peaceful dreams, not the night terrors that so often plagued her.
"Once upon a time in the distant mythical land there lived a boy." He said, his eyes still closed he spoke with the rich rumble of a contented man. "This boy had so many things he wanted to be. He was poor, his people were poor and there were things he could never do. You see he spent too much time in the public library, he read too much, and in his reading he had found a world that waited for him. A world where mothers didn't do other people's laundry and fathers didn't work two jobs so that on Sunday they were too tired to do anything but yell for peace. He saw the world as a stage and he wanted to be a player, not one of the concealed stage hands but a leading man. At sixteen, a boy of man, he joined the army. The lie of age was simple, they needed bodies to fill the caskets they would send home from Korea and so they asked few questions. War was cold and hard and not for the most part very adventurous. The boy turning man had the sad wisdom to see that here he was no leading man; he was the stage hand of a drama written and staring generals and politicians. He tried to share this insight with his fellow soldiers but with rock hard icy trenches to dig and death waiting over the next hill they didn't want to hear him. At last peace was signed, a victor assigned and the man boy was sent home. Still searching he took a job on a vagabond steamer. He worked long hours turning bolts and greasing gears to ward off the inevitable demise of the ship that should have been retired years before. And as he worked he would see the captain or the first mate walking down from the bridge and he would feel a burning in his heart. They were after all, the leading men in this ships drama. And he was...?" The old man sat up looking at Jamie through his blurry eyes.
"Invisible." Jamie said, the sadness of the word filling her. The fire had died down some, so she threw several more boards on it, hoping to bring back the tall shadows to prove she was real.
"I knew you of all people would understand." He said, sharing with her that paternal smile that made her feel proud. A comfortable silence grew between them. Jamie pulled a stick from the fire. Stirring the coals she watched the sparkling embers float into the sky. Above them the clouds had gone leaving a glittering carpet of stars. When she at last looked down she found the old man staring into the fire, lost in his own thoughts.
"What happened to him, I mean... you know..." She asked, not being polite, she really wanted to know. It was as if she had found a man who had walked her path and might have some map to guide her.
"The boy? He grew old." He said with out any pain, it was just a fact. "He saw the world, but kept his eyes glued closed by the sad feeling that he was doomed to be a stage hand to others dramas. And then one glorious day his sight failed, not in a metaphoric way, time had caused the real spark of his eyes to fail. He could no longer read the books he so loved. He could no longer see all the leading men and women who played in dramas around him. He was in fact forced to look within. And do you know what he saw?"
"Loneliness?" She answered without even thinking.
"No, oh no my dear not that, he had felt that his whole life. Like our fish, he wouldn't have even noticed it... What did he see?" He was pressing her, and she felt no longer like the bright student. He had tricked her with his kindness and now she felt stupid again.
"How the hell should I know what he saw, he was blind right?" She snapped at him, sorry now she'd let him eat most of her soup.
"Close your eyes, and tell me what you see."
She did as he said, instantly feeling silly for listening to this crazy old man she quickly opened here eyes again. "Nothing, ok? Nothing."
"Close them again, only this time keep them shut... Please no one but me will see and I'm near blind... Go on."
For reasons she didn't quite understand she wanted to please him, to make him proud, to win his smile. So she slowly closed her eyes. For a long time they sat in silence, he glassily staring into the flicker flames and her with her eyes firmly clenched. At first all she could see was the dancing light on the veins of her lids but then her mind started to drift. She could see the farm she grew up on, that old red dog she had loved so... Clean laundry floated on a line as she handed a shirt up to her mother. Her mother had died so long ago. Jamie could see her young self her head resting on her mothers dying lap. Drifting across time Jamie could see pieces of a life, a life she had lived. Opening her eyes she smiled at the old man.
"He saw himself." She said, in whisper.
"Yes, my bright shining child, he did indeed see himself. And in that marvellous moment he knew he had been the leading man in the tale of his life." The old man let out a low chuckle that rumbled and built into a full blown laugh. His eyes sparkled and danced, it was infectious, and Jamie found herself laughing for the first time in many years. In that laughter she felt an empty place filling, she felt alive. In the grey early morning light she awoke to see the fire was now mere ashes. A memory of the heat it had given two found souls. Moving to wake the old man she felt her hand on his cold face and knew he was dead. Kneeling beside his empty form she wondered why she felt no grief. He had found what so many had not and now his time was done. She kissed his waxy cheek, brushing the hair up off his forehead. Taking a charred stick from the fire she moved to the brick wall and with the charcoal end she scrawled in tall letters "I, Jamie, was here".

INTERLACE

A familiar face came to stand before him in the darkness, bringing light to where the shadows had once been. Her smile filled his body with a warm comfortable feeling. It was a smile he had seen a million times before, but could not place it at the moment. It gave him the feeling of lying in bed under the warm covers amidst a cold winter morning. The same cold he had felt only moments before she had come to him.

“Not yet.” She said softly without moving her lips. He did not know what her words meant, but her eyes gave him a comforting look. He relaxed his tense muscles as best he could, studying her a little closer.

“I know you.” He said in low whisper. Her smile widened as she came closer to stand a few paces from him. Her soft grey eyes held a sadness that was lacking from her smile. Her long brown hair disappeared into the darkness around them. It was then that he realized that the light emanated from her, the only refuge from the cold, dark void he had been trapped in. He shivered as he remembered the feeling of despair and helplessness he had felt within it. For how long he had suffered in it, he could not begin to imagine. He had tried to scream, but to his frustration had only heard deafening silence, until the light, and then she had appeared.

“Yes.” There was a touch of amusement in her voice. “You knew me very well once, I would say.” She said as she drew closer.

“Who are you?”

“That is not what is important. What is your name?”

“Joshua.”

“Joshua. That is a pretty name. I always liked it.” She said the latter in a whisper. “Tell me Joshua, what are your earliest memories?”

As she spoke the words, he felt a gentle pull inside his head, pieces of memories, long ago forgotten, coming woven together in an intricate pattern. Each one interlacing with another, parts forming the whole before it came to him as if he relived the moment. It was quiet and dark. He felt himself floating in the darkness. Suddenly, he heard a dull thumping steady and rhythmic. The memory melded into another. The smells, sounds, and sights all too real. It was of his mother, holding him in her arms. He looked around, trying to gather his new surroundings feeling safe in her arms. The image began to fade. All at the pattern unravelled and wove itself again. Once the pattern was finished, it repeated the process, each pattern a different event in his life. All the joyous events intermixed with all the sadness in his life. His first kiss and first love came and went. The weaving repeated the cycle faster each time until he only relived a second or two. Tears of joy, sadness, and pain rained down his cheeks. Only then did he realize she was holding his hand in hers. Reliving the moments in his life over and over again, until it seemed it would never come to an end. And then, as abruptly as it began, it was over. Through his tears, he looked at her, warm smile never leaving her lips. He tried to speak to her, but he was too drained of emotion. After a long moment, an eternity it seemed, he was able to speak. “I don’t understand. What is happening to me?”

“What is your last memory?” She said before he could ask any more questions. She repeated her question when he hesitated. “Joshua, I would like to know about your last memory?”

Like his previous memories, he felt his memories come together in a subtle harmony. But while the last vision took its toll on his emotions, this one hit him with a force that made him step back and cry in pain. Every muscle and bone in his body grew hot with pain with each strand of muscle pulling itself free from him, every bone crushed by an opposite force until the pain slowly subsided and his vision cleared. He could see a small town from the edge of the forest where he sat behind a boulder, plumes of black smoke rising from several of the buildings. A dark grey cloud hovered over the town, growing stronger by the minute. He saw people flee the town, women and children mostly, with their faces covered to keep them from inhaling too much smoke.

He was dressed in his woodland uniform, battle gear strapped to his chest and back. Holding his rifle with his left hand, he felt for his sidearm, making sure it was still strapped to his hip. Two other soldiers stepped past him to make their way toward the town. They moved through the trees carefully to the nearest building. The soldier to his left climbed through the window first only to be greeted by a single shot from inside. He heard a dull sound, the soldier’s lifeless body falling to the ground. Several more shots followed in rapid succession as he fell to the ground to avoid the gunfire. He lied motionless on the ground; every breath became harder to take as each second past. He tried to move, but his arms and legs refused to listen. The other soldier with him was lying across from him. Dead eyes looking directly at him. He noticed the small, red wet spot forming over his chest and he began to laugh. He laughed at God’s merciful joke until his lungs protested with a violent, painful cough. He looked up toward the clear morning sky, the sun failing to warm him from the cold European winter. In that peace he remained as he heard the distant thunder of war and its deep, echoing cry before the world around him went black.

He was on his knees before her, not sobbing, but paralyzed in the realization of where he was. He was dead. It all came to him at once, the silence, the darkness, and the cold - death. He looked up to her, his mature features replaced by a mask of horror. A child who’s innocence had been violently stolen. Her smile never leaving her lips, as they finally moved when she spoke to him.

“Find the strength to stand Joshua.” She said softly. “Do not begin to think you now understand everything. There is much yet that you do not realize.”

“I am dead.” It was all he could say in a voice too small. The strong, confident man that had stood before her had turned into a small trembling child. Her soul wept for him, something her eyes couldn’t do. “I am dead.” He repeated softly.

“And so you think it is the end?” The smile on her lips disappeared as she came to closer to him. Normally, she would not try so hard to bring someone along; they all eventually stepped through the light. But he was different than the others. She needed try everything in her power to get him through quickly. A need that grew stronger as his eyes pleaded for her to rid him of this nightmare he was going through. “Feel what is in your soul Joshua. Do you not believe?”

“Believe in what?”

“In yourself. Believe in the fact that you are and always will be.” The look in his eyes told her he could not grasp the concept yet. As it was with everyone else that came to her, they saw the body as more important than their true self. Earthly fantasies that would soon be forgotten once he realized it would never matter again.

“An angel.” His eyes lit up and she saw the defeat in his eyes disappear, but the innocence was still there. “If I am dead, you must be an angel!”

“You can call me that if you like.” She closed her eyes momentarily and drew from his energy illuminating out a few more paces.

He was lost in his thoughts for a moment, clearly trying to understand everything around him. His breathing slowed and his eyes shined with the light of his essence. Gone was the wild look in his dark eyes of fear and shock.

“You must not think. You need to forget all that was. Reach out with your soul and feel.” She reached around him and tapped him from behind, her image never moving from in front of him. He twisted around in fear of what might have come out of the darkness behind him. An Earthly laugh escaped her and he turned red with embarrassment. He was still holding on to what was. “Now that I have your attention, show me the day your world ended.”

“I just showed you.”

“You fail to understand. The day you left and the day your world ended are not the same. When did life seem to stop having meaning for you? Do not think. Simply close your eyes and feel.”

He opened his mouth and then closed it. He stared at her a long moment before he closed his eyes. She threaded the light through his spirit, strengthening its power as she did so. The memory came clear in her eyes as it came to him, and his pain. A familiar place to her formed within the weave, tall green trees, painted in front of the snow-capped mountains. The air was filled with the cold scent of winter as it rushed by him. He came to a smooth stop and turned around as hundreds of people, it seemed, made their way down various hills like he had.

He watched her ski down the slope as she made her way down to the bottom of one of the slope where he stood patiently waiting for her. She made her way down with little trouble passing the midway marker, gracefully attacking the snow in a side to side motion, effortlessly weaving through the red flags that marked the course. He took his eyes off of her and gave a quick glance at his watch. This was going to be their last run. It was getting late and they had reservations for dinner that night at a nice restaurant just outside the small resort. When he looked up, she was gone. He looked everywhere for her but could not see her. Frantic, he ran up the course as fast he could through the snow. It was several minutes before he spotted her blue suit at the base of one of the trees. As fast as he tried to reach her, it seemed an eternity before he finally got to her. When he finally did, it was too late. He tried reviving her but his attempts were useless. He screamed as loud as he could in pain, anger, and frustration, echoing through the mountains, announcing to the world that he had lost the only thing that mattered to him. He carried her limp body to the nearest cabin and held her tightly until the medics were able to convince him to let go of her, his white suit stained with her blood. He looked up and screamed to the heaven in rage and pain. “Why!”

As they came back to the light, he kept repeating the question. She fought back the tears, and holding herself strong for him. The small part of her still connected to the other world touched her. In this world, he was another soul making its journey; he had little connection to her, but that small part that would always remain caused her soul to suffer the pain he felt. She held his face in her hands and asked him to remember one last thing. “When did you become whole?”

He looked at her with childlike eyes, asking her silently to make it end. All the questions and painful memories. It was the same when she had made the journey herself. She knew the pain he felt, but it was necessary for him to understand and know himself first. Let him find the answers alone, no matter how painful. The easier you make it, the longer he will remain here. She reminded herself.

“I…I don’t understand the question.” He said softly not looking at her.

“At what point did you find meaning to your life? When everything suddenly became clear?” She repeated the question.

“When all was perfect.” He said to himself as the strands began to dance together. He walked by himself through the huge crowd toward the art section at the local fair, passing vendors busy trying to sell their various trinkets, wood carvings, and local souvenirs. Except for an eccentric old lady in a small purple pavilion at the end of the row, across from the line of food concession pavilions, there wasn’t anything interesting. She had a large number of necklaces and rings made of ivory displayed on the long counter. Behind her, several exotic headpieces made of feathers, coloured stones, and bone hung silently across a row of nails. She had a young man to her right haggling with an older woman over one of the necklaces. Maybe later he would stop get something for himself. First, he wanted to stop by the Art Section, maybe there was something better suited for him to spend his money on.

The Art Section was enclosed in a large round area, young artists were trying hard to sell their paintings; most were having some success, though not enough to make any sort of a decent living off of. He made his way through the large gate that had been sectioned off from the rest of the fair stopping at each artist, admiring each piece of work. He had loved art since he was very young, though the talent for it had never invested itself in him. Some of the paintings were nice, most were plain, and the ones that were simply terrible he only gave a momentary glance. He measured each painting’s value by what it inspired within him. Some stirred sentiments or old memories, but most were simply paint on a white canvas.

Halfway to the end, he came upon a painting of a beautiful young girl standing on a cliff looking out toward the open sea. The sun, just above her head, was making its way westward with gentle waves violently crashing as they reached the bottom of the cliff. It produced a feeling of anticipation and loneliness inside of him. She told him a million stories without even speaking a word, as she silently watching the sun set over the ocean. He admired its power to hold his heart and mind in its beauty. He wondered whom she was patiently waiting for.

“She is waiting for her lost love.” Answered a voice behind him. He turned to find himself staring into a pair of beautiful, smiling grey eyes. He was trapped in them for a long moment before he finally brought his eyes back to the painting, then a quick glance over her shoulder, before they settled on the ground in front of him. Anywhere but into those grey eyes again. Long, thick red hair framed her smooth, dark face that was accented by a small round nose. The smile on her lips matched the childlike innocence of that in her eyes. She was the most stunning woman he had ever seen. “He sailed away and she vowed to wait until he returned to her. So, she waits silently on the cliff for him.”

He regained his composure long enough to speak to her with a nervous voice, failing to keep it steady. “How long will she wait for him.”

“Forever, if she has to.”

“That’s a very sad story.”

“Love is sad.”

“I always thought of it as being something happy? We celebrate love, not mourn over it.”

“Don’t you give a pretty girl a dying rose? Aren’t the most beautiful poems mostly about a past or lost love? Love can be many things. But most importantly love is everything we feel, happy or sad.”

“That’s pretty deep.”

“I know.” He relaxed as they talked for several more minutes, before she began to slowly fade. Her face melting into the angel’s face, as she continued to speak to him. Those eyes, that knowing, warm smile, it was her. It had been her all this time.

“April?” He asked in stunned disbelief, still not certain if it was really her or another dream. It would be too much if it was another dream.

“Once, a long time ago.”

“I don’t understand.” His disbelief quickly turned into anger. “You show me my life, making me relive everything and then you come to me as my dead wife and tell me it’s a lie. Make it stop right now!”

“No, my sweet spirit. I am what you see before you. But you see with your eyes, not with your soul.” He stood before her motionless, soundless, for a long moment. She felt him trying to reach her, touch her. He was a newborn taking his first steps, stumbling, falling, and finally giving up in frustration. “Close your eyes.” She told him as she wove both their spirits into one. He was complete once again, her soul uniting with his.

“Be still, my sweet spirit.” He felt her say. “This is not the world we once shared.” The heavens opened above him and he felt himself moving, flying closer within its reach. He no longer felt his arms or his legs. But he felt her, images and feelings, not words passing between them. He created a beautiful crimson rose for her making it dance in the soft wind before her eyes. With a smile, she made it burst into a million sparks of fire that settled around them like stars shining brightly.

“I never thought death could be so beautiful. There is so much I never told you. How much I’ve missed you. How every day I think of you. How…”

“You never did learn how to listen.” She said with a smile and a small laugh. “Now, close your eyes and tell me everything you never had a chance to. Not with words, but with your heart.” Her words came from far away, not the few paces that had been between them.

He did. Every book, every poem, every walk he took on the beach. Image after image, he lived every sunset again and every sunrise. With it, he shared everything that was beautiful in his world. He felt her pure essence as he reached out to her and felt her light touch in return. He saw her, not with his eyes but with his soul for the first time. The warmth of her beautiful light as it shined in a million brilliant colours he could not begin to describe. His dark world gone as his own light grew brighter. She had been the lone candle to light his world until he found his way through the darkness. His own peaceful light glowing brightly among many others.

As he reached out to her once again, he realized she was gone. But he was complete and shined even brighter. Gone were the restrictions of his Earthly body and mind, he was free and at peace, but more importantly, he was alive...

~~ Mirage ~~

Love was never more absurd
Than when it touched you,
Than the time it caught you
And defeated you when you fought
Against the stars.

Injured stars,
Torn wings,
Broken sparks
You left in your comet trail.

It pierced your winged foot
And your unreal palms
With its fire spear...
Love.

A blazing lump you are
And cosmic, now.
And oscillate, not fall
In me - surrounding you.

Love defeated you,
My supernova...
It sent you
In your native place,
In my star bearing mind!

How is it that, being gone?
You fill my days,
And all the long nights

Are made glad by thee?

No loneliness is this,
Nor misery,
But great content that
These should be the ways.

Whereby the Fancy,
Dreaming as she strays,
Makes bright and present
What she would be.

And who shall say if the reality
Is not with dreams so pregnant.
For delays
And hindrances may bar
The wished-for end;
A thousand misconceptions may prevent
Our souls from coming near
Enough to blend.

Let me but think
We have the same intent,
That each one needs
To call the other, "friend!"
It may be vain illusion.
I'm content.
So I choose to
Stay at bay.

There Is No Armour We Can Wear

There is no armour we can wear,
No wall or fortress we can build,
No force of arms, no shield of fear
To equal what the heart has willed.
Can stop a soul on vengeance bent,
Can equal what the heart has willed,
Death for death and pain for pain,
A purpose pure, of dark intent
To kill for grace and not for gain.
The lust to purge oneself of grief,
That anguish might find some relief.
Must yield in turn an answering lust.
Hate to hate set groove on groove.
To turn away the face we love.
No force of arms, no shield of fear.
There is no armour we can wear.

~~ Enough Said ~~

1. Don't let what you think get in the way of what you see.
2. Don't let what you see determine what you think, for appearances are deceptive.
3. Be omnivorous in your tastes.
4. The only way to see something whole is from several points of view.
5. The closer you come to reality the more it is a mystery, and the more unimaginable it is that you or anything else exists.
6. The only truth is in scrupulous satisfaction over time.
7. Develop principles that you are willing to abandon, but not easily.
8. When anything is too sacred to joke about, the cause is fear.
9. If you are sceptical of faith and reason, what is left as a basis for decision? Everything, so long as you are prepared to be wrong.
10. Now is a point without dimension; the future is imagination; the past is memory.
11. The self is the subject of infinite regress.
12. The separation of consciousness from the whole of being is an illusion that can be overcome only by an act of imagination.
13. Death is the permanent loss of consciousness, which does not by any means end one's existence, only one's consciousness.
14. Since consciousness is a function of the brain, it cannot outlive the brain, any more than sight can outlive the eye.
15. All being is one, single and indivisible, both within and outside of time.
16. Death is the sunlight that makes all things visible.

~~ No Time ~~

Time is not a river but a sea,
Holding all that was and is to be.
It is the mind that moves across the story,
Racing with the wind upon its glory,
Tracing through the will one's destiny.
Years shimmer in their drowned eternity.
The problem is, of course, identity,
Having the impression that we are free.

The ocean that we live on has no shore.
However far we sail, we reach no end.
Infinity is simply what we see,
Restoring the first meaning of "to be,
"There being only ocean, nothing more.
Yet that is what we cannot comprehend.
None long can bear that god-like ecstasy,
Imagining oneself at being’s core,
Nor long remove the multiplicity
Each mind within itself must apprehend....

~~ Final Steps of Dance ~~

Death can also be a dance....
Each knows by heart its final steps.
A life immersed in pain, perhaps,
Too much controlled by circumstance,
Has but to turn to come to rest....

~~ Freedom ~~

Freedom is imprisoned in the flesh,
Restricted to the unrestricted soul.
Each must hearken to the inner voice,
Even when there seems but little choice,
Demanding nothing more than being whole,
Opening each gift of time afresh,
Maintaining through one's courage, one's control.

~~ Persona ~~

Some people are a ship, and some a hearth;
Some are wind, and some are summer sun;
Some are many, some are only one;
Some seek the whole while others seek the part.
But those who travel also stay at home,
While those at home are also much abroad,
For all of life must be an open road
That leads us to the place from whence we roam.
There is no difference what we do or are
That makes a difference to the naked soul
That stands before the mirror of the whole
While sailing,
Sailing bright beyond the sphere.

~~ Waves ~~

The wave without becomes a wave within,
Semblance of a transcendental self
Unmoved by the cool carnage of its motion.
Nor ought we not recover from this ocean
And build once more upon its nameless gulf.
May our love be at the heart of being,
In which all loved ones lost might
Rise again....
Fly upon imaginary wings
Over every dark and windswept storm.
Rise above all turbulence and harm
Yearning for eternal peace and joy.
Even as the winds your worlds destroy,
In you there is an alien voice, and calm,
Giving forth the word that rapture brings:
Holy is all life and death!
There is a paradise within each breath....

My last Wishes...

(The contemplation cropped in my mind when the slumber refused to blind me irrespective of the sedatives I took. It doesn't refer to anyone. Hence, it shouldn't be taken personally by any person under any circumstances. Just take it as a piece of Art.)

I wish I could open up,
I swear I would have told you then.
But it’s about someone for whom I don’t exist,
Someone, who left me without a Goodbye Kiss.

I wish I could forget,
I am sure I wouldn’t have been in such pain.
But everything keeps coming back,
And now I have figured out, I was the one who was insane.

I wish I could hold the tears in my eyes,
I know, then I wouldn’t have cried for nights.
But it just struck me, “You” always belonged to someone else,
And with me, “You” were just friend or just pretended to be one.

I wish I wouldn’t have taken those long walks.
I know it wouldn’t have happened, those long talks.
But sometimes you just remain your original self and go with the flow,
And you realise soon I’ve nothing left to offer anything unique from my store.

I wish I wouldn’t have been touched,
I think it was then when I lost myself.
But at times, you just get carried away,
And later, you have to make futile attempts to keep your memories at bay.

I wish I wouldn’t have thought you’ll ever be mine,
I remember you told me, I should stop trying.
But we kept crossing each other’s lives,
And that always made me go down on my knees and endeavour still.

I now wish, I wouldn’t have wished at all.
I am quite certain, I could have saved myself from this fall.
But I still wish, “You” get what “You" deserve,
And I know you’ll have this one preserved.

But now I’ll say Goodbye.
And I know you will seek and keep a track.
But remember Darling! This time I will never come back.

(P.S.: I reiterate not to be taken personally in any which way by anyone)

~~ Emotionally Eunuch ~~

Man woman entwined
Orgiastic emotions
Roller coaster ride
Back drop silence
Seminal splurging
At high tide and
Ebbed desires that
Slip and slide undraped
The Eunuch cried

Passions of a lusty woman
Burglarized jewels
Of a first night
Castrated chaotic
Cataleptic coming of Age
An incomplete bride
The bed, the pillow
The bed sheet hidden pride
Rearing a hope
And a split
Open wide
The Eunuch lied

At night time
She never sleeps
The sweat of a drunken man
On her body creeps
Mechanical pain
Of love faking
As the Eunuch weeps
Outside the silence
A dizzy dawn
Caught in a mindless sweep
Neither man nor woman
A stump growing
Out of a garbage heap
Through the curtains
Of depravity

A panic gripped heart
As germs of fear biting
Every ounce of passion and potency,
Baffled by the onslaught of those faces,
I stare in sheer disbelief,
At the army of mutilated faces,
Unfolding a trauma of ugliness
Circulating spasms of fear…

To be a woman
She tried...
And gave birth
An uncut umbilical poetic pause
Words bleeding and left inside…
Miscarriage aborted... agony
That she could not veil...
An epitaph.
A mound
A tombstone of love denied…

~~ Eve’s souvenir ~~

I give to you
A fire to light inside your heart,
To feel the warm embers glow.
A piece of the sun's warm rays,
To bask in its fiery show.

I give to you
A piece of a rainbow to color your world,
When all seems totally gray.
Some roses for the sweet perfume,
To kiss your senses with its bouquet.

I give to you
A sprinkling of some twinkling stars,
To wish upon at night.
The morning dew to kiss the day,
To unwind in its delight.

I give to you
A summer's breeze to caress your face,
To show that someone cares.
The sweet song of the nightingale,
To remind you that I am always there.

I give to you
My lasting friendship, always true.
A gift of love to hold inside,
Whenever you feel blue,
Or just because you need a friend.

I give to you
Myself
As a daughter, a sister, a wife, a mother, a friend
This woman...
That will always be there in some opus
For you!!

~~ Spare me ~~

Oh, spare me precious
Of empty words and filthy mind games
Fear not, for I would not come to harm
Nor to destroy
I carry flames
But to enlighten your dawn...

Too long, my love I spoke in whispers
When in my soul the storm was roaring,
But now time has come to bear the witness,
Of this truth to be reborn.

I bring no flowers, nor precious gifts,
No dreams, no promises to keep.
But ask what's wrong in doing good
When that is all I need.

To draw into your pristine face
The honest smile was made.
I'd kill and may not rest until I found
A way to see you at peace.

Fear not my heart, my love is chaste
Send me to hell if it has any adulteration
There’s nothing you'd say or do that I'd not endure
For I know since long that you are my intimate one.

My mind was stymied, the steady lie
That I'd love you less, it made me ply
This truth unveiled, I breathe again
I'm ready to begin with the glory of pain.

Now, I set free this spirit bound to you
And remit all my devotion on your way
I pray you,
Do concede or into knowing me
Stop blacking your soul and your own way...

Metamorphosis

I am a butterfly
A metamorphosis same as I.
I think and dream all through the day
I think of Him and then I pray.
I experience life's mystery.
A chrysalis bound to the cocoon
Anchored by a web so fine,
Wake up to beauty ethereal.
I who have seen this far,
Blinded by the friendliness of the cosmetic sun
But stretched back into darkness
Battered by the bloodless teeth of the rain
Still thirsty through the pool of flooded days
I am proof of the ignorance.
I am the pain, and the sore.
But I am also the healing, the unspoken history of scars.
I have returned, away from the breathless cologne of night
I am the butterfly in the open field of thorns
I am the cold anger in the friendly handshake.
I kiss every bud to a new bloom.
I fetch you colours from the rainbow.
I am pure innocence behind all form
I am the raging force in every storm.
I am the laughter of children having fun
I am the glistening wave that reflects the sun.
I have returned, tears tainted with the glory of a new tomorrow
I returned, illuminated and evolved…

So when you see a butterfly so free
Think of its beauty and you'll see me...

~~ Mutiny ~~

Never had he thought that there could be any resemblance between him and his father. And the sudden revelation frightened him. Beneath the shower his crooning ceased abruptly and he went completely mute. He came out of the shower slowly and seated himself in the chair placed against the wall. He seemed to have no interest left to turn off the shower. The thin spurting threads of water hit the floor, made a musical sound, broke into drops and scattered away. Like poetry imprisoned in metre, the rhythmic sound persisted. He was deaf to the sound, however. He did not get any solace sitting in the chair either. He got up, and looking into the mirror, tried to turn his body in a particular pose, but did not succeed in the effort. He was certain that he had seen his father in him a moment ago. The drops of water on his body kept sliding, dripping down. The growth on the head looked like a thick, black plaster. Down below, short hair had been pressed flat by water. It looked as if a black layer had been glued to it. He wished he could shake away that blackness with a jerk; but he dared not do it. He took a few steps to pull a towel and realised that his very gait had changed; those were staggering steps. A fear enveloped him -- a fear that the moment he pulled the towel from the hanger, the bathroom door would fling open, a small child would stare at him for a moment, he would then utter an abrupt 'Hushshshsh' and the door would shut with a bang. Although nothing like that happened, he felt a choking sensation impeding his breathing. He put on the clothes in haste and came out of the bath. A doubt lurked in the corner of his mind. He was not married, yet he thought he had been seen naked by his own child.

Leaving this room with the attached bath, he came out into the corridor and settled in the reed chair. He lit a cigarette. The scene before him revealed a range of small, asymmetrical hillocks, half-yellow and half-green trees, abruptly ending tracks and open sky. Yet he felt he was in a limbo. He imagined he was still in the bathroom and in the place of the mirror on the dressing table, he saw a painting portraying the scenery of the naked Nature. He had not yet rid himself of the mental spectre that had rose in his eyes earlier in the bathroom. His father was already dead and he was still alive. He felt as though he had died and his son was alive. Even so, for a moment, he might consider himself to be living; his son would refuse to accept his existence. How strange! The incidence was repeating itself. He himself had not given importance to his father's existence so long as he lived. His father, during his lifetime, always complained that his son was not a son in the true sense. After the death of his father, he had realised that his father was a father; but then, he could not bring his dead father to life to convince him that his son was a son, too. And that day, while taking a bath, he observed in the mirror the glimpses of his father in his own being and at that very moment a feeling had pervaded deep inside him that he was living his father's life. When he was a small boy, his father had once forgotten to take a towel to the bathroom. He had called him and asked for one. While handing over the towel, he had seen through the crevice of the door ajar his father's naked body, water dripping from it. A good part of the body was covered with the pressed growth of hair, a thick, black plaster stuck to his head and his organ too.... For a moment he had been aghast, and his father, banging the door shut, uttered the word 'Hushshshsh'. That picture of his father had left an indelible imprint on his mind. Whenever his father entered his imagination, that very picture whirred before his eyes, to the extent that he had completely forgotten whether his father ever had any other shape. The whirring picture came before his eyes again. A doubt lurked in his mind that he, too, had the same shape.

He and his father differed in many ways. His father was very emotional and fragile. That's why he loved him so much. He grew up, came of age and started working; but his father would still embrace him; still kiss him as usual. He had always felt his father's embrace abhorrent and he knew not why. When he was a boy, his father would plant on his cheeks a fixed number of kisses; and when he grew up, he would count the number of his father's kisses; when the number increased, he would bawl out, "Stop it. Stop it now." His father would be cowed down and would draw away like a slapped child. But when he met him the next time, he would not desist from kissing him again.

He did not remember if his father ever beat him. In fact, he would not even hurt a fly; he was too puny to do it. Everyone in the family, excepting him, would kick a row with his father over a trifling matter -- to the extent that even the youngest child would be indifferent to him. Everyone thought that Father was an ordinary human being who knew only to work hard the whole day to maintain the family -- nothing beyond that. Everyone, therefore, tried to rob him. And he? He would get himself robbed by one and all and would still look happy, especially when the children would buy something with his money and eat and be happy. That was the only relationship that linked him with others. Otherwise, when he returned from his work dead-tried, the children would hesitate even to give him a cup of tea. He would always share everything with others. He would see his children eating things brought by him and his humble eyes would radiate inner solace and happiness. He wouldn't mind if he didn't eat. For him the remains would do, but he would be happy to see his children satiated. If the money earned by him brought food, clothing or anything else for the family, he would be delighted. But if the money was spent on films or entertainment, he would be sombre. His father was simple, but certainly not easy to deal with. He was selfish and would lie occasionally; but he would not conceal anything. That's why some people sneered at him. Whenever he saw anyone sneering at his father, a kind of poison would permeate his every fibre. He would come back home and pour all the stored venom over his father. No member of the family ever tried to defend him, because in his demeanour there seemed to be so mush wanting. He would commit palpable blunders in conducting himself with others. That which a small child would understand easily, his father wouldn't, and in the end Father would be in a pitiable plight, but no one would have any mercy left for him. Whatever part of his life he lived with his father, they stayed like parallel lines -- two tracks which kept extending together, but never meeting.

He again looked down at the path -- long and short distances of serpentine lines. Nowhere did they run straight. Whenever they met, they became one, and separated again. A sharp bend of one of these narrow paths extended itself and pierced through his forehead. He was injured. He remembered Maya. With her serpentine tracks he had met like a straight path. He had met her and absorbed himself in her and again separated. His blood warmed up the moment he thought of Maya. He thought he was naked again for the shower and this time he felt hot water sprinkling over his head, burning his body and streaming down. Maya's soft touch was stuck to his body in the place of the thick, black growth of hair. In his imagination, he brought forth into focus his yesterday's experience. Maya's thin, immaculate, sandalwood-like body -- soft, lustrous, velvet. Hide and seek games of modesty and the fatigue of satisfaction, closed eyes. After that a promise -- to meet again, again and again, always. And that day, at that time, he was preparing to go for the repeat act. But, instead of going to Maya, he had seated himself in the reed chair. He would linger on there for a while; perhaps for ever.

For a moment the thought of Maya instead of his father lingered in his head. But marriage with Maya? He had never given it a serious thought before, nor could he ever think about it. The marriage itself had been a point of rift between him and his father. Whenever he had been asked to think about it, he bluntly refused. He was not prepared to accept the very view that someone else should ask him to think about his marriage -- even his own father. Or probably because it was only his father who always insisted that he ought to think about his marriage and he had religiously opposed the very move. In a way it was his father's 'last wish'; but there wasn't any possibility of fulfilling it.

And the doctor's diagnosis was "suffering from worries." The moment he heard the word 'worry', he would not leave his father alone and insisted that he should not worry. As if the worry was a shirt which, at his instance, his father would refuse to wear. However, his father didn't do what he urged him to do. This, too, he took as one of the reasons of confrontation. His father did worry and fell prey to all those ailments, one by one, which worry breeds. The last time when he had gone to see his father, in spite of being sick, he had gone to the station to receive his son. He was very sick, indeed. He couldn't get up from the bench he was sitting on at the station. When he was informed that his father was sitting on the bench at the station anxiously waiting for him, he went back looking for him in his search, but couldn't find him. The illness had made his father very weak. In his search he passed by his father, but couldn't recognise him. And when his father realise that his own son hadn't recognised him, he thought it was for the first time that his son had treated him in the right manner. Three days after the incident, his father had thrown away all the medicines and accepted the punishment before it was due.

He saw a face slinging from every tree right down to its roots. He imagined that these trees would crawl one by one, slowly and slowly, towards him and he would be surrounded by a graveyard. A scene from Macbeth danced before him. His head whirled. He got up. He felt he wouldn't be able to stand up; he would soon tumble down. He staggered towards his room and lay on the bed. The mattress was thick, but still he felt the sharp points of the springs piercing through his flesh. In another moment he imagined he wasn't on the bed. He lay on the operation table and the doctors, without giving him anaesthesia, were operating on his brain. His head was being hacked and the shooting pain was unbearable. It was fear that prevented him from lifting up his voice to shriek. He saw a serum oozing out of his brain ceaselessly. With the broken head he would keep oozing the fluid all his life. No one would ever come near him except, of course, Maya.

Maya pervaded his mind once again. But then, her nude body couldn't stir his passions. On the other hand, the very thought of the soft, secret part generated in his psyche a feeling of loathing. When it crossed its enduring limits, he felt like crying out and say, "Ah! Please slit me through and extricate my pain." He had seen the butchers cutting through the flesh of animals. He knew how with sharp knives they cut and skinned them. He, in his imaginary pain, also liked his writhing body be cut open and freed of the pain the same way. His nerves should be slit open and the pain extracted; and then, the dead pieces should be hung here and there so that they never felt pain again.

Someone knocked at the door. He gave a start. He thought that if he got up, his limbs would fall apart. Who is it? Is it Maya? He wouldn't ask her to gather his scattered limbs; but then in her presence, he would not be able to pick them up by himself. He had no courage to face her. If it was Maya, he wouldn't be able to avoid her. Maya would then remind him of his promise and device plans to see that the promise was kept; and like every silly woman, she would say, 'We shall have our own small home; you will be there, I shall be there ... and ... and' -- There will be nothing. Suddenly he shrieked, and then he got up and opened the door.

The waiter stood at the door. He had come to collect the lunch order.

The effort seemed to be never ending. Gathering poise he said, "Nothing."

Love is never lost...

Tomorrow I will marry Mr. Lourdon. My Mr. Lourdon. Jonathan.

Tomorrow I will stand before God, before Jonathan, and I will promise to love, honour, and obey. Tomorrow I will leave this house as a maiden for the last time.

But tonight is mine, and tonight I will weep once more for Leonardo. He was my Leonardo, and I was his Jane. Before Jonathan. I had promised to marry him, and he had promised to raise my name to the stars and teach the angels to sing my praises. Once when I was visiting the Peaks with Aunt and Uncle, the year before Jonathan came visiting, we saw the Northern Lights. It wasn't the first time I'd see them, but Uncle said they were the brightest he'd ever seen. I knew it was Leonardo 's doing—he told me he'd come back. He had promised. I knew those eerie purple and green streaks that glimmered and danced across the sky were simply Leonardo teasing me again. It's blasphemy, I know. But he did say he would come back, and he always kept his word. Yes, Leonardo was a man of words.

I waited for him. Past hope, I waited. Past faith, I waited. And then Jonathan came, and now it comes to pass that tomorrow I will marry him instead. Past hope. Past faith. Once upon a time I swore that I would wait for Leonardo forever.

That was before Marianne gave me his last letter—the one he didn't finish. Even after I'd read the letter so many times that I knew it word for word, I still couldn't bear to think of telling any other man that I would love him, or honour him, or obey him. But he told me to dry my eyes and let myself love and be loved. He ordered me to let another man step into his shoes. He wrote that it was only right that I should live and love fully, for the both of us. He wrote that I would know when the right man came along. He promised to help me to know. But he didn’t. Not a sign of Leonardo have I had these three years. And so I muddled along, shielding myself from suitors with my reserve. That reserve, plus my lack of dowry and connections, served me well…until Jonathan. Only with Jonathan did I forget that I didn’t want to fall in love again. Only with Jonathan did I find myself wanting to dance again. Only with Jonathan did I find myself blushing again under a man’s admiring gaze.

And here I am, about to marry Jonathan, and I don’t really know whether he’s what Leonardo had in mind. How did this come to pass? I know that Mr. Darcy has had his doubts about my heart. Eliza would never admit as much, now that he has bared his soul to her, but I could see it in his eyes when he would watch Jonathan and me. Not that he saw me as a fortune-hunter. No, I think he saw the truth—that my heart was not likely to be touched by such a man as Jonathan—and he tried to protect his friend from unrequited love. But Jonathan did touch my heart, somehow, and now I would rather die myself than dishonour this sweet and gentle man who braved his sisters and his friends to seek my hand. It would be a dishonour to him if I were still to listen in the darkness for Leonardo’s footfall or look for his face in the shadows of the moon or reach out into the night to touch his hand, as I am wont to do. I won’t dishonour Jonathan, and so tonight I will say goodbye to Leonardo. I will burn this packet of letters. All of them, all his words. All those sweet, passionate, schoolboy words that he wrote to me. Words that he never had time to grow into. Words that I didn’t have time to live up to.

Jonathan blots his words. He writes so fast that he gets ahead of himself like an overgrown puppy. He brags about it too, which makes me smile and love him all the more. Eliza told me that Mr. Darcy scolded Jonathan about it back when I was sick and she had come to nurse me. She teased him for scolding Jonathan then, and as payback he fell in love with her. Those two! Of all the men in the entire world, at least she found the one who can match her wit for wit and spark for spark. I thought they would ignite the Hall the night of Jonathan’s ball, the way they carried on.

Strange, I met Leonardo here too. “The Hall is let at last,” Mama had proclaimed. Only then it was the Forsythes who had taken the house. Father called on Mr. Forsythe, behind Mama’s back, of course, and soon we were intimate with the whole family. Eliza and I were great friends with Anne Forsythe, and the three of us, plus Charlotte Lucas from Lucas Lodge, had jolly times together. Even with Anne’s two older brothers away at university, the house was always bustling with maiden aunts and dashing cousins.

It was Mr. Forsythe who proposed that the neighbourhood families hire a dancing master to teach all the young people. Father and Sir William Lucas went along with the plan. And so he came among us. Leonardo Hayes. Thin as a rail and with a shock of unruly hair. He seemed to bounce when he walked and a smile was never far from his lips. But, oh, the man could dress. He took our breath away, he was so elegant. But unlike the ton to whom he was a slave, his elegance never degenerated into rudeness. “Mr. Hayes could charm the stockings off a seahorse,” Mama used to say, fanning herself after Leonardo had teased her to within an inch of impropriety. “And its well he can,” Father would reply, “considering the odds against him.”

The odds against him. It wasn’t until later, when he claimed my acquaintance in London and insisted on calling at Grace church Street, did I learn what those odds were. When I met him in Hertfordshire, I only knew that he was the finest young man I could ever imagine.

He taught us all to dance. He taught us to “dip and dive, “strip the willow,” and “honour” each other. The first time he touched my hand as he showed the others how to turn and turn again, I trembled. And then I blushed because behind his twinkling eyes I could see that there burned a soul worth touching, a heart worth holding. I was then but fifteen.

Down the hill from our house is an ash grove, a cool and peaceful respite from the noise and bustle. It was there that Leonardo first enchanted me with his words and made me see what love could be like. He had come suddenly as I was collecting my thoughts after a particularly tiresome day.

I was sitting on the bench at the far end of the grove, resting my eyes on the honey rays of evening’s last light and watching the meadow beyond shimmer with spring flowers and soft tender grasses. New lambs and calves were quietly nuzzling their mothers. I wondered whether Mama would ever be the same again. I missed her so much it hurt. I missed her softly stroking my hair as she admired my needlework. I missed her brushing my hair and laughing and telling stories about when she and Aunt Phillips were girls. I missed her kisses when she used to tuck me in at night. Is fifteen too old to still want to be tucked in? Is fifteen too young to be ordering dinner and hiring servants and overseeing my sisters’ education?

“I thought I might find you here, Miss Berret,” Leonardo said, startling me out of my reverie. He held out a thin book. “Have you read An Evening Walk?” he asked.

“My father read it to us in the evenings last winter,” I stammered, trying to ignore the offer of the book.

“Far from my dearest friend,” he quoted, “It is mine to rove thro' bare grey dell, high wood, and pastoral cove; his wizard course where hoary Derwent takes thro' craggs, and forest glooms, and opening lakes, staying his silent waves, to hear the roar that stuns the tremulous cliffs of high Lodore.” Leonardo broke off with a blush and then grinned at me, running a hand through his tangle of brown curls.

“As you can see, Miss Berret, I clearly have too much time on my hands.”

“Oh not at all, Mr. Hayes. That was lovely,” I breathed.

“Have you been to the Lake Country?”

“Not at all. I’ve only ever been to London,” I said with a sigh, ashamed at the limits of my provincial life.

“Yes, everybody’s been to London,” he teased.

“Have you been to the Lake Country?” I asked quickly to cover my confusion at being teased by such an elegant young man, one who can both recite poetry and dance divinely.

“Many times. My father has a lodge there. It’s the only time we can really…” Leonardo flushed as he stopped abruptly, and then recollecting himself, he smiled again quickly, insisting that I take the volume of poetry.

“Read it and maybe tomorrow you can tell me what you think of it,” he said. Then he bowed and took his leave.

With a pounding heart, I watched him as he walked back up the path through the grove and round the corner and out of view. Then I sat back down on my bench and opened the book. It’s not really a gift. He only lent it to me. And I did love to read poetry. I gingerly thumbed its crinkly pages, anticipating the pleasure it would be to read those wonderful words at my leisure and in my own way, which is very different from Father’s. And then, near the end, I found a sheet of paper that proclaimed the following were “Lines on First Seeing Miss Berret.” So that’s why Leonardo Hayes insisted that I read William Wordsworth’s poetry!

Now here I sit on the night before my wedding to Jonathan holding a bundle of letters in my lap. They’re bound by a blue ribbon, and they’ve been wrapped in a handkerchief and stowed in my chest for years. At the bottom of the pile is the first poem Leonardo wrote to me. I read it now and shake my head at his extravagant praise of me, silly little fifteen-year-old girl that I was. In love with the idea of being in love, he was. I remember how scared I felt when I read his words—I wasn’t prepared for such an outpouring of emotion. I had never seen myself as someone who could incite such feelings in another. Eliza could, certainly. Even at fourteen, she was a fairly determined flirt and never seemed to doubt that all mankind should be at her feet. But I, I didn’t have such confidence or expect such homage. Mama has always said I was a beauty, but Leonardo was the only one, before Jonathan, who could make me believe it.

I read Leonardo’s lines through until I had them memorized. And then I went home and hid them away along with the book he had lent me before I rejoined the family. All that evening my mind was full of Leonardo. Later that night, at bedtime, I made the biggest mistake of my life. I told Eliza all about it. How she laughed. She mocked his praise of me and sneered at his poor rhymes and weak images. She laughingly declared that if I had ever thought of falling in love with him, his sonnet had more than ruined any chance he might have had with me. Never has her wit hurt me more. I didn’t speak of him again to her. Of course, she teased me about him while he remained in our neighbourhood and winked at me when he danced with me. He never seemed to notice that she was teasing him, though I died a thousand times inside whenever she did.

I never told her that I met him secretly in the ash grove almost every evening, and we talked of Wordsworth and Coleridge and a new young poet, Shelley. He told me that he meant to be a great man someday. A man of letters and a man of science. A builder. A healer. An artist.

“Then why are you a dancing master?” I asked, in all my innocence.

“Because, dear girl, I must earn my bread.”

“But your father…”

“The issue is more my mother…”

“But I thought…”

He stopped my words with his finger. “I am not complaining that I must work. Luckily I have the education to be a master. From here, I go to a family in London. A widow and her son.”

“From here…” I gasped, realizing that Leonardo was not going to stay here long.

“You’re fifteen,” he said. “I cannot ask you to marry me…yet. I will wait for you, dear girl. I will come back, Miss Berret, and that is a promise.”

“But I can come to London,” I exclaimed. “My aunt and uncle often invite me to stay with them, for the benefit of the excellent masters,” I added with a shy smile.

“Do you go to Vauxhall?”

“Often. Aunt Gardiner loves to promenade.”

“Then when you come to London, I will find you there.”

And he did. Not two days had I been in London before Aunt and Uncle took me to Vauxhall Gardens. Aunt was about to enter her confinement and wanted to be in company as much as possible before her lying in. I was to help with the younger children, leaving Eliza to cope with life. I still laugh out loud when I remember how Leonardo introduced himself to Aunt and Uncle, claiming an acquaintance with Father and never letting on how devoted he was to me. They found out soon enough though. But he was so charming that they never denied him entry to their house at Grace church Street, they just cautioned his employer, Mrs. Brandon, about his growing attachment to their very young niece. How happy I was during those four months in London.

Leonardo sent me at least a poem a week. And he was happy too. The family with which he was living was wonderful.

And then there was Dr. Gray. Leonardo simply idolized Thaddeus Gray—doctor, orator, and philosopher. It was Dr. Gray who finally told Marianne Brandon that Leonardo should be his apprentice and not her son’s tutor. It was Dr. Gray who took Leonardo away from me, first to Edinburgh and then to Paris. Leonardo had been hoping that Dr. Gray could conjure up a cure for his mother. Instead, he was stricken by the same disease that was consuming his mother. Except that her constitution was stronger than his. She rallied. He died.

It was Marianne who held his hand and mopped his fevered brow. It was she who wrote down his final words as he whispered his goodbyes to me.

Father called me into his study one fine May morning and there I saw Dr. and Mrs. Gray, standing next to father, looking as if the world had ended. Seeing them there, with the morning sun pouring down upon them, I knew it had, at least for me. Father caught me in his arms before I crumpled to the floor. Of course, he had known about Leonardo and me. He was the only one in the family who did know. Dr. Gray had come with Leonardo when he called on Father to ask for my hand. Father had agreed on condition. He bluntly told Leonardo that he had no intention of marrying his eldest daughter to anyone not a gentleman, but if Leonardo could make the grade then he would not object to my marrying him if I still agreed. That was good enough for us. Father promised not to tell a soul, not even Mama and especially not Eliza, until Leonardo was ready to pass for a gentleman. I was then eighteen. Nine months later, Leonardo was dead.

I went away that day to stay with the Grays in London. Father helped me pack. Or rather, he kept Mama and my sisters occupied so that Marianne could help me pack. I don't know that Eliza ever suspected. It would hurt her so if she were to find out that I suffered without her. Somehow after Leonardo died, I was even more determined that she never discover that I had loved him and that we had been engaged. Perhaps that’s how I came to nurture the fancy that he would return to me some day, just as he had promised.

Tomorrow I marry Jonathan. Sometimes I feel guilty for letting him love me and loving him back too. I won't dishonour him. Leonardo’s first lines on seeing me are the first to go. They flame up and in an instant they are gone—flame, then smoke, then ash. Now the first year—all the poems and letters from when I was with Aunt and Uncle and he was with Marianne and Robert. The stack from that year is thick—the weight of all those words almost smothers the fire, but then a rogue flame finds an unprotected corner and the parchment blackens. The centre is eaten away by the flames, and Leonardo’s passion breaks into chunks of glowing cinders that flicker, unsustained, unfed. The second year is thinner but richer and deeper as he finds the words that express not only what he loves in me but the shape of that which he is trying to build. Year three is thick again for he has all of Paris to describe to me—the poor, the sick, the dancers, the singers, the doctors, the scientists, the poets, the madmen, and the lovers. And now year three is smoke, and now it's ash. Year four is slender, rapt, and incomplete. I place the final stack upon the logs. And now year four is gone as well. Through my tears, I look down to see the blue ribbon that bound his words together lying limply in my hands. It has nothing left to bind, and I no longer am bound to Leonardo.

The fire burns awhile longer and then dies down. Soon there will only be a half-burned log remaining as proof that once this heart glowed with the flames of Leonardo’s words.

I can hear laughter drifting up from below. Aunt Phillips and Mama as well as Lady Lucas and Mrs. Collins and all my sisters are waiting for me to come down so they can toast Eliza and me on the last night of our maidenhood. I know I should go down and smile and show them just how happy a bride I am. If it’s not wrong of me to happily marry Jonathan, it can’t be wrong of me to cry once more for Leonardo.

A gentle but determined knock upon the door brings Eliza to my side.

"Come quick," she says. "Mr. Lourdon and everyone are waiting down below. They say they have a surprise for us."

"Tonight?" I exclaim, reluctant to leave my sullen glow of coals.

"Come, Jane, please,” Eliza smiles at me and pulls me to my feet. “Tomorrow we both will be married women..."

She hurries me down and helps me wrap myself against the cold December night.

Indeed, Jonathan and Mr. Darcy are waiting for us, grinning, clearly up to something.

"Will you like to company me for an evening walk?" Jonathan asks.

I turn sharply. "What did you say?" I exclaim, surprised at the turn of his words.

The light from the moon was bright and guided our path luminously. We’ve made this walk together, many times in the gathering twilight. At the top we see why Jonathan and Mr. Darcy have dragged us out into the night. The Northern Lights. We watch a shimmering curtain of purple, green, and gold stretch clear up to Polaris, or beyond. Mr. Darcy talks about how late it is in the year for them to appear, and Eliza talks about the Merry Dancers, and Jonathan takes my hand.

I feel the tears cascading down my cheeks, unchecked and unrehearsed. Is Leonardo teasing me yet again?

Jonathan touches my cold, cold check, near frozen with tears.

I look into his eyes and finally see, behind the sparkle that is Jonathan, that there burns a soul worth touching, a heart worth holding.

"Is it you?" I ask.

He takes both my hands in his and gently kisses my fingertips. Then he looks past my tears and into my heart.

"It always was, dear girl. It always was."

Someone said it so correct, “Love is never lost. If not reciprocated, it will flow back and soften and purify the heart.”

** Heaven can wait **

Heaven can wait,
And a band of Angels wrapped up in my heart,
Will take me through the lonely night,
Through the cold of the day.
And I know, I know,
Heaven can wait,
And all the gods come down here just to sing for me,
And the melody’s going to make me fly,
Without pain, without fear.

Give me all of your dreams,
And let me go alone on your way.
Give me all of your prayers to sing,
And I’ll turn the night into the skylight of day.
I got a taste of paradise,
I’m never going to let it slip away.
It’s all I really need to make me stay
Just like a new born again.

Heaven can wait.
And all I’ve got is time until the end of time.
I won’t look back.
Let the altars shine.
Let me get my last rites done.
And I know that I’ve been released,
But I don’t know to where,
And nobody’s going to tell me now.

It’s you I’ll embrace.
You see, there is no heaven without your love
Just a piece of the puzzle, just a place high above.
And if it takes more than a lifetime
To make this dream come true
Heaven can wait until I’ve finished loving you…