It was a such cold day in December. A young boy looked out his window. His eyes were so very confused. His mother longed to be as young and sweet as he was again. To not have to fear anything but the dark, to be carefree, when dancing through fields of flowers and daisy chains and stars seemed so possible and near...
"Look, mummy. An aeroplane." His voice was no longer the sweet, innocent voice it once was. It was now cold and wild, like he would grow to be.
Mary West looked up. She then screamed. The plane was going straight into where Robert West worked. Going... falling... then it exploded.
"Roger, take my hand."
She picked the boy up and ran to the building, weaving through houses and people to get there. She tried to keep poor Roger's eyes closed. No child who had just barely reached the small age of five deserved to see something so chaotic as the world around them's true horror. To feel the cold confusion, that worried glow, to see the paramedics running through the fiery halls and the sting of smoke in your eyes...
A tall man with a beard and checkered hat and a tag reading "John Hammock" walked up to Mrs. West.
"Mary... I have bad news for ya. The 'medics say Robert's dead."
Mary nearly dropped Roger. She hurried home and sat Roger down. His eyes kept wandering over the the window from what Mary could tell through that shaggy brown mop of his.
Roger spoke up. "Momma... what does it mean to be dead?"
Mary ran her hands through her blonde hair. Roger, boy, to die is to stop living."
"What does it mean to live?" Roger asked.
Mary ruffled his hair. "You live. During those happy times, during those sad times, that is life. When you die, all of that stops. You don't do anything, because you can't."
Roger's green eyes widened. "Do you mean that's what happened to Daddy?"
Mary averted his gaze. She jerked her a bit to the left.
Roger suddenly burst into tears. Mary held him close to her, their heads together.
His tears flowed into her tears and hers flowed into his, and what didn't trailed down their faces into small pools by their necks.
"Momma.... Momma... I don't want to die!"
"It will be a long time until you do. Hang onto your life with your will, Roger. Hold others' lives as dear as your own. All life can only be had once."
"Stop using big words and tell me I don't have to die! Just let me feel better for a moment! No one cares about your fancy words of others' lives. Poems schmoems!"
Mary seemed a little confused at Roger's switch, but continued anyways.
"If you'd like, I could tell you a story."
Roger perked a bit. "Yes?"
Then the phone rang. Mary sighed. It would be the phone call she feared. "Mrs. West, we are sad to inform you that Robert passed on at twelve in the morning of December 21st."
She picked up the phone.
"Robert West is your husband, correct?"
"Mr. Robert West is well. He was lucky, averting the impact and debris."
Mrs. West put down the phone.
Roger sat down the toy he was holding. "What, Momma?"
"Your father is alive."
Mary held Roger again, but it was a joyful embrace. Perhaps Roger would grow to be more healthy then we believed.
· Fri Aug 16, 2013 @ 03:37am · 1 Comments