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Story by Thias:
Six months and three days. In this time he'd tried everything else. Talked to a rabbi friend, to his own priest, to God. Shouted against the creaks and rattles in his lonely house; against the wind blowing the curtains. But today was different. He didn't have strength to talk or shout. In fact, so far, he had spent the whole day face down on the now dusty carpet of the narrow hall. The dust was the accumulation of his withering days. Breathing it in caused him to cough. Coughing sent more dust into the air. He sobbed and coughed and lay on the ground. The wind came to stir him, as it always did.
Six months and three days. In this time he'd tried everything else. Talked to a rabbi friend, to his own priest, to God. Shouted against the creaks and rattles in his lonely house; against the wind blowing the curtains. But today was different. He didn't have strength to talk or shout. In fact, so far, he had spent the whole day face down on the now dusty carpet of the narrow hall. The dust was the accumulation of his withering days. Breathing it in caused him to cough. Coughing sent more dust into the air. He sobbed and coughed and lay on the ground. The wind came to stir him, as it always did.
“Be quiet!” he groaned in his
gravelly voice and rocked himself onto his side, onto his haunches,
to sit up. The wind sighed. He glowered at nothing in particular –
or maybe at the piece of wallpaper peeling back to reveal an older
pattern of horsemen and dogs on a hunt. He dabbed at the
muddied-by-dust sweat on his head with the sleeve of his cardigan. He
pushed back his wispy white hair. Strands wafted back into view of
his eyes. He blinked and left them. He watched as the curtains
signaled the moan of wind a moment before he heard it. Windows lined
one side of the hall. Curtains topped every window except the third
one at the very center, its curtain had fallen a week prior. As the
wind moved down the hall each window's curtain billowed and fell into
itself.
“You aren't in the wind.” he said
to no one in particular.
Billowing curtains.
“I hate the wind...” he scratched
the stubble on his chin and looked around, “hell, I hate this
house.”
A breeze lifted a bit of his hair.
He closed his eyes, feeling the
wickedness of old age as he shifted his weight off his bad hip.
“Where are you?” his head settled
against the wall at his back. He listened for a moment.
The wind stopped. He opened his eyes.
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The wind met him again as he
stepped out of the house. It didn't embrace him, caress his face,
gently move him. It was cruel. The wind shoved through his body,
stabbing his stiff joints, grabbing his old bones. He tensed for a
moment. Coughed. He continued walking towards the piers; past the
piers, to the wave breaker. To it. When she had sculpted it thirty
years prior the local news paper, a small usually three paged
publication, had called it the “Hale Harbor Shofar.” She had
liked that. Though, she'd told him it was really something different.
“You know what it is,
don't you?”
No.
“Well, it's simple
really. It's a hearing aid.”
Hm? For what?
“Everything! You can
hear the whole world. It's set into the ground and you can hear
everything. The wind talks to you, the earth, life, love. You can
hear anything.”
Is that so?
“It is.”
You crazy girl. What do
you hear?
“What I need to hear
the most.”
“What
I need to hear most.” he murmured as he stumbled up onto the curb
leading to the wave-breaker. The cold wind caused his eyes to water.
He knew that he wouldn't hear anything when he arrived. He knew not
to hope for a sign or voice. Really, he'd learned well not to hope
ever. He just wanted to be closer to her, even in a small way.
Viscerally he ached, craved, needed a connection to her. A moment.
Though, he wasn't a fool, to hope for anything more than a nice
memory. The Shofar. The hearing-aid of the world. Even through
blurred vision he could make out the curved sculpture set against the
cloud-darkened sky and waves. He was carrying a little wooden box
with an intricate brass clasp. He tucked the box snugly between his
arm and slowly shuffled toward the Shofar. The wind pushed at his
back now. He felt like he might stumble again, he shuffled faster. A
strong gust caught him just as he was reaching the sculpture and he
was thrown to his knees. To his hands and knees. The small wooden box
slipped, skidded and bounced across the cement of the breaker; it
almost seemed surreal, the frailty of it, as it ripped apart. The
contents, pictures, letters, and newspaper clippings, exploded from
their resting place. Alive they flipped and rolled with the wind.
Danced away. The man fell to his side, ignoring his hip. Eyes wide,
looking between the sculpture, the freed memories, and the cement
directly in front of him; there wasn't anything to say. He crawled to
the statue's steel-beam and sat against it. The tears in his eyes
came now without sobs. He closed his eyes.
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The man
watched the horizon. First, boats as they moved into safe harbor for
the night. Then he watched as the sun slowly descended into the sea.
The wind had begun to die down. The water had forgone fiercely
slamming against the breaker, now it merely lapped against the rocks.
His tears had dried but he still felt a hot sting at the bridge of
his nose. Felt empty. Felt remorse all over again, felt alone, felt
certain that it was over now. Forty-eight years was over. In fact, he
felt he'd only truly lived for forty-eight years. The light breeze
twisted around the crown of his head, pushing his hair up. His cheeks
were flush and his nose red. He sniffed. He sniffed again and wiped
his nose with his sleeve. He thought of how often she'd chided him
for using his sleeve. A ship's bell rang to announce it's arrival.
The old man looked across the sound, watched the small fishing vessel
as it headed home. For six months he'd tried everything. He'd tried
to reconcile the reality of it all. He'd tried to remember
everything. He'd tried to forget. No matter what, in his soul, he
still felt the gaping lack of “her.” It wasn't right.
His
gruff voice cracked and he couldn't keep his head up as he whispered,
“God. Oh, God... there's no purpose in this.” The heat at the
bridge of his nose gave way and large tears rolled down his cheeks.
He turned away from the setting sun, looking down the distance of the
wave-breaker. He rested his head against the sculpture's cold, steel
brace.
“I'm
an empty shell.” he whispered.
No wind.
“A
fisherman with no reason to go home.”
He
thought he faintly heard a flapping sound. He sniffed, wiped his eyes
with his calloused fingers, and looked the opposite direction to see
if anyone was approaching. There was no one. He closed his eyes.
“I
can't do this.”
The
flapping noise, faint, again.
“Hello?”
he called, not too loud, as the wind was still gentle.
No
answer.
He
shifted and began to stand up. Oh, how his bones ached now. His
muscles were even more stiff, even slower. After the moment it took
him to get up he heard the flapping again, this time realizing it was
with the breeze. Perhaps it was some trash. Some flyer handed to some
passerby for some event for some reason, caught in the rocks. He
straightened his back as much as he could, groaning. This time he
heard a buzzing. No, he felt the buzzing. Against his leg, in his
pocket, his phone was vibrating. He pulled it out. It was his forty
year old son, David, calling. He answered.
“Hello.”
“Dad?”
“Yeah.”
“Are
you alright?”
“Yeah.”
“Dad...
where are you?”
“What
do you mean?”
“You
aren't at your house but you left your front door open. We thought
something might have happened. Mr. Gallegos next door said he hadn't
heard anything all day though.”
“I
just went down to the piers.”
David
paused for a moment. “To the Shofar?”
“...
yeah.”
“I
can't imagine how much you miss her, Dad.” the pitch in David's
voice changed. He was a good boy. Always loved people, always tried
to understand; and when he didn't, was always there to comfort
regardless. David sniffed, and probably straightened his shoulders
and stuck his chest out. Trying to be strong. “Dad, I'll be there
in about five minutes, just stay put alright?”
“No,
no. You don't have to. I'm fine.” The man heard the flapping noise
again. He slowly scanned the rocks just before his feet. The wind
began to pick up.
“No
Dad, I'm coming down there. I'll be there in a moment, alright?”
Distracted,
“Sure. Alright. See you soon.” He saw a faint contrast of white
moving against gray stone. He moved towards it.
David
had paused on the other end of the phone. “I love you, Dad.”
“Hm?”
he realized it was a piece of paper.
“I
love you.”
“Oh.
I love you too, son.” the white paper was stuck, flapping in the
intensifying wind , between two rocks very near the water. The tide
was slowly rising, but in about ten minutes the paper'd be ruined.
“I've got to go. I'll see you soon, alright kid?”
“'Kay,
dad.” beep. David
had hung up.
The old
man stuck his phone in his pocket. The rocks weren't treacherous so
much as tedious, but he made his way to the paper rather quickly. It
was just about to wiggle free as he grabbed it. Instantly he
recognized it. Its weight, its width and height. It was his and her
wedding picture. It had been in the box. They had been so young.
Tears came again and he fought to keep his vision clear. The wind
began to pick up even more. He flipped the picture over, reading the
back. He knew what it said, but he still read it aloud.
“Us,
We've
got quite a lot to be, don't we?” he smiled; at her curly
handwriting, but moreover at who she was.
“We'll
start off being a king and queen,
Then
maybe pirates to sail the seas.
We'll
rediscover old worn out countries,
and
whisper into the world new dreams.
The
whole world might never know us,
But
don't think about it, they're just silly.
Besides,
in the whole world, I only need know you.
And
wherever the wind may carry us,
Of all
the things to be, lets be known
In our
life I'll learn to know you -
And
your part's quite easy do trust,
All you
have to do is smile and
Know
me, and know I love you
And
know it's true.”
The old
man began weeping. His whole body shook. His whole heart cried. He
sat on the rocks, didn't give a care for the aches and pains of his
old and worn body. Every pent up fear, every moment of despair – it
all washed out of him. His breath was ragged, but he stopped sobbing.
In that moment tranquility was an icy chill down his spine.
“I
know it's true, sweetheart.” he hugged the photo to his chest and
lay back against the stones. He heard his son running down the
breaker. The old man was exhausted.
“Dad!”
“Thank
you.” he whispered between ragged breaths.
“Thank
you.” To God. To her. To the wind. And he closed his eyes.
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Thank you for reading, guys and dolls! Love y'all! God bless!
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