The Sweet Ending, Part III (In Three Parts)

To read The Sweet Ending, Part I, click here.

To read The Sweet Ending, Part II, click here.

The following is a work of fiction. In Three Parts serves as an opportunity to flex my creative writing muscle.

The days that followed my brother’s burial can only be remembered for the uncommon fog of confusion and disbelief that hung over our heads. One by one, like matches pulled away from the book, family members and friends returned to their lives. Unannounced visitors rang the doorbell less often. The phone returned to its daily cadence of solicitation calls from Medicare and insurance companies. Cards, flowers, and gifts in memory of slowed to a point of nonexistence. The weeks before felt like a deluge of rain. This felt like a drought.  

Soon, I would be another match retreating elsewhere. On the other side of the map, my life rested on pause. My responsibilities and routines awaited my return. Somehow, the world expected me to continue living my life. Attempting to cope with this new normal would hang over me like a Seattle rain cloud. My brother would stay. Forward was my only real option.  

In my absence, my parents would finally experience a deafening silence they had never known. All their lives, their home has known the noise of children. In this void, they would be expected to craft new memories, laugh, cry, and live a life. Such a daunting task should never be forcibly placed on any person’s shoulders.  

And that’s what we did. Now, the days flash before us with a chaotic and jumbled rhythm. The calendar seems to roar with ferocity and an ending, bending toward a moment in time far removed from the day we said goodbye. With the passing of each day, grief remains a constant companion. The resonance of his voice is harder to remember. Though, not all is darkness. Good memories present themselves unexpectedly and like anchors in time. They are moments to be cherished.  

My parents finally decided to write a new chapter elsewhere. Far removed from the toils of attempting to fill a home that knows such sadness with joy, they retreated to a new beginning. In doing so, they found as much joy and love as you can imagine. As they made their escape, they symbolically closed the book on a hell we never expected, but a hell we survived.  

Be good to each other,  

Nathan  

With the Windows Down

With the window down,

Emotion pours onto the street.

It is displayed in two-part harmony.

A representation of who I am;

Something for all to hear.

There are those who disagree.

Despite the volume, the message isn’t meant for them.

It is the pain I feel.

The joy in my soul.

The lies I tell myself.

An ideal.

These songs are me.

A hum and a stretch of road,

Meant to signify the coming of life.

So much to experience with the windows down.

Be good to each other,

-Nathan

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An Affair, Part III

"An Affair" is a three-part series where I attempt my hand at short story writing. Thanks for reading! 

He is alone. On the top floor of his two story home, he stands like a lone tree occupying a vast and empty field on this stretch of the Oklahoma plains. For the better part of a decade, he has roamed this world this way. Potential partners have come and gone. Some of them deserved more than a one night stand. Some deserved a second phone call or at least another chance but when one is searching for themselves in this world there is no time for such niceties. 

Then on a regular day, one which no one would think anything of, she fell into his world. Across the bar, a place he had been countless times before, there she sat. Once their eyes locked, everything was set in motion. Their connection, the moments they would share over the next three months, and their affair were all laid down before them. Of course, everything began with small talk. 

As they talked, the ghosts of their past were released. They were no longer high school students in a small town. They were adults committed to jobs, families, friends, and decisions they couldn't possibly comprehend. All that was known and all that was left unsaid boiled down to one simple idea; they needed each other. She needed freedom. He needed someone to hold for more than a night. 

For the next three months, they did exactly that. Their time together was ecstasy. It was foreign and forgiven. It was lost in conversation and endless nights. It was free of judgment and violence. It was passionate and caring. It was everything they needed it to be. It was with the right person at the right time. 

Yet, from the beginning, there was an end in sight. Soon his tour abroad would be over and he would return to claim his rightful family. She would have choices to make. She could choose her marriage or the man standing before her. 

Just like that, her choice was made. She left like all the others. She chose the comfortable. She chose the abuse and neglect. She chose something other than the man who provided an escape from all that pain. Removing a tear from his eye, he understood. Affairs are tricky moments in time. It is best not to get attached. 

Be good to each other, 

-Nathan 

Returning to the Scene of the Crime

I suppose many people have waited for me to write this story. Except it isn’t a story—it’s a piece of my life. My December. And it’s not only mine. It belongs to a mother, a brother, nephews, a church family, to friends, to students, and a real family. I’ve kept it mine alone because I’m private, yes, but also to protect their grief and their healing. I understand we all heal at different paces, and I’ve been stuck in anger, and never once felt denial. Because I was there. I still refuse to reveal details, so if that’s what you’re looking for, it simply isn’t here. If he wanted details revealed, that would’ve happened. He was the absolute best writer I’ve known.

This is my time to be selfish. I’ll leave the others alone.

I still hold my breath when I see the lights hanging down the buildings down Automobile Alley. I wonder how anyone can not know east from west, because that’s how the ambulance got there a little bit faster. I no longer jump when a car backfires. I have only smelled gunpowder once since a December several years ago and I can’t comprehend how it’s perfume to some. I don’t judge you for that, and I hope for the same consideration.

I respect and uphold the Constitution, including the Second Amendment. But if we can’t have a reasonable conversation about guns and safety and America, should you own one? A man I respect as much as anyone else owns an AK. I don’t. I’ve never even shot a BB gun. I don’t because I know I could shoot a person trying to harm someone I love, including Thunder Dogg. Including me.

I don’t own one because I watched a man die by gunshot wound as I begged for him to hold on for just a few more minutes, and I wish that horror on no one. Those images never leave.

So as the world hears Joy to the World and Jingle Bells and O Holy Night, please look around to see those holding back tears. We can’t all fake it for a whole two months. Sometimes we need to be held and to simply hear What Child Is This.

Because it’s us.

s. jensen

12/20/16

A Well Traveled Poem: "Almost"

Almost

by

Janet Allen

From Frederick, OK

When I see the sun rise, blazing in the sky,

I almost allow myself thankfulness for a new day

When a song is playing a new melody,

I almost allow myself to dance

When the rain gently comes, cleansing the earth,

I almost allow myself to be refreshed

When I hear the laughter of a small child, pure and sweet,

I almost allow myself to smile

When the fire cracks and pops, bringing warmth,

I almost allow myself comfort

When he wraps his arms around, offering escape,

I almost allow myself to love

When the leaves are falling, red, amber, bronze,

I almost allow myself to see the beauty

When the pink sky spills into orange as the sun sets on another day,

I almost allow myself to let go of the pain of losing you

and allow only the joy of remembering; almost