One Thousand vs. Two

One Thousand vs. Two

By S. E. Smith



I have a confession to make: I like to walk around in pictures. I'm not sure if it's something I've always been able to do, nor do I know when the first time I did it was. It's like being in that moment again, you see. It's even more vivid than daydreaming, and I remember everything long after waking up. But for a long time I thought I was merely blessed with the ability to completely remember some of my dreams. It wasn't until one day, about a year ago, that I "awoke" from such an episode just before my secretary came through the door. "Mrs. Comeaux! I've been looking for you for nearly twenty minutes!" she cried, appearing both frustrated and surprised to see me sitting in my office chair.

"Twenty minutes?" I asked, confused.

"Yes. I came in here looking for you about twenty minutes ago. You weren't here, so I've been checking around the office. Is everything okay?"

"Yes, I'm fine. What's up?"

"Mr. Ericsson wants to talk to you whenever you have a moment to come to his office."

"Thank you. I apologize for the trouble."

But I wasn't nearly as fine as I had said I was. It would have been so much easier to think I'd just been daydreaming about the picture I have on the back left corner of my desk. But no dream is ever that real. I'd been there. Allan and I were twenty-six and newly married. Upon returning from our honeymoon, we had gone to visit an old friend of his, Andrew, who owned land near Waco with his wife Carly. On a whim we took a blanket, some food, and wine out into a pasture and ate and drank while the sun went down. Of all of his friends, they were probably the ones I enjoyed being with the most. We laughed and became sillier as the evening went on.

But that wasn't just three years ago. It was three minutes ago. That was no dream; the smell of the grass was still fresh in my nostrils, the taste of the wine was fresh on my tongue. I stared at the picture once more. Surely I was going insane? But there I was, once again, listening and laughing as Allan and Andrew recalled stories from their youths. This was not my imagination; I reached out and touched Allan's leg, and he smiled at me.

Only the thought of being missing in the office again brought me quickly back to the real world. At that moment I was quite glad that I now have my own office, as things would have quickly become very awkward had this happened when I had a desk near other employees. Mr. Ericsson wanted to see me; I needed go take care of that. Perhaps I could sort this out later. I didn't, though, not for quite a while.

Now that you already think I'm crazy, I'm going to go ahead and tell you some more about me that might not make any sense. I've become accustomed to the occasional feeling that I'm being watched. The gaze doesn't come from any particular direction, but from every direction. In fact, now that I think about it, to say that it comes from every direction does not do this feeling justice. Each time it happens I have this innate understanding that this glance does come from a particular direction, but in time, rather than space. It comes from a pair of eyes somewhere in the future, looking back at the present moment as you or I would look back on a memory of the past: sometimes with joy, sometimes with sadness and the wish that things could have turned out differently than they did. I told you I would sound crazy. Even if it's more than just my nerves randomly acting up and there is someone watching me, how could I know so much about that person? I honestly have no idea. Ah, you say, that proves that there's no reason to believe in those details, then. But you haven't experienced it like I have; if you had, you'd understand completely. I'm not saying that you should believe me just because I tell it to you. But do try to understand why I believe it so fervently.

I've been getting those feelings very often recently; they began just before I had our first baby, Rose, and recurred quite often in the weeks afterward. If it hadn't been for those feelings, my two months of maternity leave would have been the most perfect time that anyone has had on this planet. Rose is my world, my everything now, and everything little thing she does brings the utmost joy to my heart. It almost killed me to leave her at a daycare that first day I returned to work, which was this morning.

This evening, after I picked her up, I sit with her in my lap, telling her how much I missed her all day as if she can understand what I am saying. It certainly s true, but I am relishing the moment for other reasons. I know that as soon as Allan gets home from the bakery and Rose is asleep he'll be trying to get me into bed, complaining about how we haven't done it in months. While that also is true, I have no energy for it, and I can't see how he does, either. It is not happening as frequently, but Rose still wakes us up several times every night, and I have not yet been able to physically adjust to it like he has. And now that I am returning to work, I expect the fatigue to get even worse.

As I feared, Rose is falling asleep before Allan gets home. I rock her, rub her back, and coo at her to try to wake her up gently. Once I get her to open her eyes, and I try to then engage her, but to no avail, as my tired girl falls right back to sleep. As I put her in her crib I pray to whomever that might be listening that Allan will be as tired as I am and just not want to make love. I warm up some leftovers and begin to eat, leaving the rest out for him to prepare on his own.

My prayers are not answered (or, as some say, they are not answered in the way I was hoping). As soon as he comes in the door, Allan asks, "Where's Rose? Is she asleep?"

"Hello, honey. I'm great. And how are you?" I daren't even look him in the eye.

He doesn't seem to care about my lack of focus on him, but he does at least seem to catch my drift. "How was your first day back?"

"Very long. I've almost forgotten how much work I used to do in one day."

"I'm sorry, darling. You'll get back in the swing of it, like you used to." He looks me up and down. "Well, if she's asleep, then I say we get down to business." He begins to loosen his tie.

"I'm in the middle of dinner!" I reply, rather agitated now. He really can be rather insufferable. "I'd rather finish eating before even discussing this."

"That's fine. I'll be in our room." He walks off, humming some improvised melody in a major key and 3/4 time.

I yell after him, "Are you not hungry?"

"Nope!"

I shake my head. Either he ate something before coming home, in anticipation of getting some action, or he os lying just to get it that much quicker. "Then at least put up the food that I left out for you, please."

"I'll do that afterward. I doubt it will go bad before I get to it."

I sigh and clench my fists, trying not to throw the remote into the television. I understand his persistence; our sex was incredible at one time. But can he not take a hint? I finish eating, taking my time, lest he get the wrong idea about my own intentions. Unsure of how I will begin the conversation, I walk down the hallway as slowly possible. It is quite strange, actually, that I have turned this cold toward sex.

During the latter part of the pregnancy, after we were advised to put our sex life on hold, he made countless comments about how he couldn't wait until Rose was born so that we could get back to it. I found it funny the first few times, but I soon grew tired of it, but either he didn't notice or continued to forget how much it irritated me. Had that really made me so averse to the thought of sex itself? Maybe I shouldn't be so hard on Allan. Nevertheless, I don't want it, and I'm not going to give it to him just because he wants it.

He puts down the book he started reading and gives me a sly grin as I come around the corner. "Hey, sexy thing. Why don't you come over here and sit next to me?"

"No."

He sighs and shakes his head. I quickly interject, "Don't even give me that! I'm your wife, not your slave. I don't owe you anything." I have instinctively put my hand up, pointing it straight at his chest. I feel completely justified in doing so, too. But in some other life, in some other time, I'm looking back and wishing I hadn't done so. It's all rather confusing, and I'm growing even more angry.

"Well, I apologize if I'd like a little bit of your attention once in a while. Rose is my daughter, too, you know, but I still give you ample attention and affection. And I'll keep giving it to you, too, whether or not it gets returned to me. Pardon me for wanting to have some fun together." He pulls the covers over his chest and rolls away from me.

Impulsively, my rage now at its peak, I slide off my clothes and lie on my back next to him. "Take me," I say. "Have your fun, if that's what you want." At this point I don't care; I just want the fighting to stop, even if this is what it takes. 'What are you doing?' asks a voice within, though it does not speak in words, and it is like that pair of distant eyes in perspective. Allan cranes his neck to look at me, then shakes his head one more. "Who are you?" he asks, before resuming his position and falling quickly to sleep. Who am I, indeed? One side of me is disgusted and confused at the question, while another, growing part of me understands the question with a sense of hindsight. In my state of confusion I remain awake until just before one a.m., and I wake up several times afterward to look after Rose.

At around 5 a.m. I find myself staring at a picture from our wedding that sits on my dresser across the room; the light of the moon has fallen in such a way that I can make the picture out in the dark. Soon enough I am inside the picture, wearing the dress once more and staring into Allan's eyes. There is so much reminiscent joy in my heart, and throughout the ceremony I don't break my stare into his eyes. The familiar feeling of being watched from the future is with me the entire time, though it fades as we leave the church and make our way to our house that night. I relish every moment of that night, as well as the honeymoon cruise we embark on the next day. The eyes watch me during that trip as well. At some point, though I don't know exactly when, it occurs to me that the eyes watch every time a picture is taken. This time the eyes are not sad, but filled with the same joy that I experience.

It is about 5:40 a.m. when I finally leave the picture. Allan is sound asleep, as he wakes up for very little, anyway, and I cry myself to sleep, wishing that we could both go back to our wedding day.

Something was wrong when I awake again, though it takes me a moment to figure out what it is. Allan is already out of bed, and the morning sun is start to penetrate the curtains. I look at the bedside clock and begin to panic. I forgot to set an alarm, and now I'm going to be late! Why didn't he wake me up? As I rush through a sloppy make-up job and throw my clothes on I am haunted by this new side of me that has arisen; it tells me to stop hurrying to get ready, as none of it will matter very soon. Why wouldn't it? It is another day, and Allan is about to leave for the bakery, probably not caring whether or not I'm in time for work. Strange, certainly, for a man who told me last night that my coldness would not alter his display of affection for me. Obviously he didn't mean it.

But I can't fight what I'm hearing, not just in my mind, but now in my entire being. The eyes! The eyes, looking back from the future, appeared when pictures were being taken. They are the eyes of someone looking at those pictures and thinking, either fondly or with grief, of those times. I know what the feelings were behind those eyes, because they are my eyes. I'm walking about in the album of photos I once put together, starting from my late pregnancy and extending to when Rose was two months old. I stopped my work on the album for some time, because something terrible happened. I remember it, first dimly, then clearly: it was the morning after Allan and I had finally had our strange fight about sex, or the lack thereof. He let me sleep and be late for work, and he drove off without a good-bye. He drove off, to be hit head-on by a city cop. The cop was swerving to avoid another collision, only to encounter a slick patch of ice. He was unable to stop the car, and both he and Allan were going at least forty miles per hour when they collided. The cop was hurt badly, but survived, while Allan was killed instantly (right in front of a hospital, too! If things had been slightly different, if he'd been going just a little bit slower, or turned just a little bit quicker, he could survived). I got the news while I was on the way to work, and drove like a madwoman to the hospital after getting Rose to daycare.

For weeks I was completely inconsolable: our last words to each other had been full of spite and anger. I hear the garage door being opened. Allan is leaving to his certain end. I begin to weep. What can I do? This isn't even real, if I'm not going insane about this picture thing, and nothing I can do will stop him from dying again. Or can I? Can I keep him alive, if only in this world of pictures, and have a second chance with him?

And then it hits me: either way, I need to run as fast as possible to the garage and tell Allan what I should have told him the first time.

So I run, a half-dressed blur streaking through the house. He is halfway down the driveway when I burst through the garage door. He hits the brakes upon seeing me, but he does not get out of the car. He cracks the window as I approach. "What's the matter?"

"I'm sorry," I cry, hardly able to form the words through the sobs. "I'm so sorry!"

"It's okay," he says, overwhelmed. "Really, it's fine. We'll make love when you're ready."

"It's not that. I've been taking you for granted for so long now. Rose is my world, but so are you, and you do so much for me. I'm so sorry, and I want you to know that I still love you as much as I ever have." I bury my face in my hands.

He puts the car in park and climbs out. "I'm sorry, too," he says as I nearly push him back into the car with my embrace. "Tell you what. Let's call in sick and spend the day together."

"No," I say, though in truth I want it so badly. This isn't real, and a part of me is staying level-headed enough to realize that I can't stay and pretend that it is. "We'll work it out this evening. You get to work. I love you." I kiss him passionately, relishing every millisecond of it.

"I love you, too. Have a good day." With a thoughtful smile on his face he climbs back into the car and backs out of the driveway, returning the kiss that I blow him. I watch as he drives away, the world around him suddenly going more and more out of focus, the way things always do as I leave a picture for the real world.

I'm not twenty-nine, I'm forty seven, and I'm alone in the house, staring at that old picture album. Why am I staring at it? Because I feel like I may have just lost my daughter. Twenty minutes ago she was here, and we were yelling at each other. I felt like she was throwing her life away, running off at eighteen to marry a nineteen-year-old boy she barely knew and who I did not like at all (I had met the young man a few times, and I genuinely did not like him and thought he would eventually mistreat my daughter in some way or another). The last thing I said to her...well, I meant it. "I'm glad your father isn't here to see what rash decisions his daughter is making." But I'm already regretting it. Now that I understand why I've been seeing the eyes recently, you see, I want to take it back, or at least to make this right again. I've been feeling the eyes for the past few months, starting when Rose received her acceptance letter to Tulane University. We had taken several photographs of her holding the acceptance letter, and then we even went to a photographer to let her model several Tulane jackets that I had bought her soon after. Then there was her high school graduation, just a week-and-a-half ago, and of course I had taken countless pictures there of her and the family members that had come to town to celebrate with us.

I know what happens next. Rose and I don't speak to each other for over a year, and things never quite heal between us. When this was actually taking place, though, I didn't know where Wayne, Rose's then-boyfriend, lived. I don't know for certain, but it seems to be the most likely place for her to have gone. She never returned any of my calls to her cell phone, either, and eventually she changed her number so that I couldn't even leave messages.

I can still remember the apartment where I visited Rose and Wayne two years later, as they were making wedding plans. It's worth a shot. I grab my keys and run out to the car, waving at a neighbor that has since moved away. It's only a fifteen-minute drive, and I see Rose's gold Altima as I pull into the complex parking lot. It was number 517, second floor, third apartment from the east end of Building 5. I knock hard on the door, four times, and stand to the side so that one of them might answer even if she uses the peephole.

Wayne answers. He's no bodybuilder, but he is still tall with broad shoulders and a fairly well-etched jaw, so he can be imposing when he wants. "She doesn't want to see you," he says upon seeing me. It's implied by now that he doesn't want to see me either. He begins to close the door, but I shove my foot in so that it cannot close.

"Rose, it's your mother. I just want to talk."

"Go away!" she replies from somewhere in the apartment.

"You've got a lot of nerve!" yells Wayne. "Get out of my home. Now!" He tries to kick my foot away from the door frame.

"Listen, Rose," I plead with what little time I have left. "I just want to say that I'm sorry, and I didn't mean what I said. You're a grown woman, and a headstrong one at that, who knows what she wants and doesn't let anyone keep her from doing it." Wayne stops trying to remove my foot from the door, appearing to sense that I'll leave once I say my peace. "I know that you have it in you to succeed, no matter what happens, even if you do things I don't agree with. That's all. I'll leave you alone now." I remove my foot from the door and let it slam in my face. With a sigh I begin to walk away. I can at least know that I've done everything that I could to mend things this time around.

As I walk toward the stairs I hear quick footsteps from inside Wayne's apartment, and the door opens again. Rose peeks her head out and looks at me. "Mom!" she says through her tears, and she runs at me with her arms open wide. It's all I need, and we embrace, now both crying. "I'm sorry, too," she says.

After a moment we part and see Wayne watching us from the door. "Is it okay if she comes in?" asks Rose. Wayne looks at me for a moment, then nods. "Do you want to come in?" she asks me. Of course I do. I want to ask her so many things, in fact, but everything is turning blurry again, and as I walk through the apartment door I walk out of the picture.

This is getting frustrating. I'm no longer forty-seven; I'm fifty-five. Not only am I remembering that I'm older, but, even now, I realize that my eyes have been watching me, and I'm still inside a picture of something. Of what, though? Of course. I'm in a different house now, because I moved from Dallas to Houston to follow a big promotion. More money, more responsibility. It was everything a single woman in her mid-fifties could ask for. Even when, due to the estrangement which had begun some eight years ago, I decided not to miss out on the biggest acquisition in the history of the company. For what? you ask. Rose was in labor, and she begged for me to come be with her, or at least be one of the first people to see my grandson. The acquisition was to last at least a week, and, again, I'd just been promoted; this is what I'd moved to Houston for, after all.

I must have just passed that picture of Rose with her college acceptance letter while on my way to the third day of the acquisition negotiations. I'm surprised that I even thought to put it in any kind of prominent place; I suspect that it helps me to imagine the life I wanted for her. Not that she and Wayne are struggling; on the contrary, after taking jobs at Allan's old bakery (which was bought soon after his death), they developed new ideas together that eventually led them to half-ownership of a second location in Fort Worth. They got married six years ago, and, from what little I know about their lives at this time, their relationship is now as strong as ever, even after they began trying to have children. It was a long and painful process, as they were unsuccessful at natural conception, and they had to try two different methods of artificial conception before having any success.

All I do remember is that it ends up being nearly three months after the child was born before I can clear my schedule enough to make the trip up to Dallas to see them. Meetings led to more meetings, late nights at work led to late weekend nights at work. New relationships led to new obligations. After three months I had three days of paid vacation saved, and I took off on a Wednesday morning to go visit. I had tried to call for several days to tell her that I wanted to come visit, but she never answered. I also called several times during the drive to Dallas, but still she did not answer. Well, I needed a vacation, anyway, so I could at least "drop by" during my tour of the town.

That may have been the worst idea of my life, and I have tried to convince myself for years that it was the lack of sleep which prevented me from seeing it for what it was. She slammed the door in my face, and then sent me a text message saying that if I couldn't make time to come around for the important things of her life, I shouldn't come around at all. I knocked on her door for ten minutes, called her, and texted back in panic. There was no response. I retreated to a hotel, determined to intercept her on her way out the next morning. I sat in my car down the block for nearly three hours until I saw the front door open and Rose walk out with little Jeremy in a carrier. My heart leapt into my throat, and I quickly climbed out of the car and nearly ran up to her.

"Why are you here again?" she asked me.

"I want to see you. Am I not allowed to see my daughter?"

"If you really thought of me as a daughter, you'd treat me like one."

I was dumbfounded. "Can you not remember all that I did for you as you were growing up? You cannot say that I haven't been a good mother to you. Honestly."

She said nothing, but simply slid a brief case into the backseat of her car. "Kiss Jeremy good-bye. I'll let you know if we make any plans for Christmas."

From there, for years, things healed incredibly slowly, and nothing was ever quite right with us. I often felt like she only let me come around to see Jeremy and their next son, Carson.

So now I am driving, having ditched the meeting (hey, what does it matter? This isn't actually happening). My grandson is a day old, and I will see him before he is two days old. The three-hour-drive up I-45 has never felt longer, but eventually I'm there hugging my daughter and holding Jeremy close to me. As I laugh and kiss the sleeping boy's forehead, the world fades out once more, just when things are starting to get good.

I'm no longer fifty-five; I'm sixty-one, and I begin to cry as I remember what's happening, particularly because I'm not to the point where I haven't been feeling the eyes watching me. This is actually taking place, in the present, where the choices made really do last forever. I begin to sob.

Things have soured terribly between Rose and me over the past year, and rightfully so. It began with her yelling at me when I came to visit about a year ago. For so long, as it seems, during my rare visits to their house (once a year, roughly) my occasional comments on Jeremy's upbringing, Wayne's manner of dress, the appearance of their house, and so forth, have been taken, silently, by Rose as snide, judgmental remarks. In hindsight I see how they were taken that way, but at that moment, as she snapped at me with years of bottled aggravation behind her, my defense went on full alert, and I left, our barely-existent relationship now seeming to have disappeared altogether.

Upon returning to Houston I dove even deeper into my work than ever before. Soon I ceased to even think about Rose and her family. It is quite evident now. My ever-increasing responsibilities to the company, combined with my track record of not being around in Rose's life, have even calloused me to the specter of cancer found in Rose's right breast. I played it off; medicine has come so far that it should be an easy operation. I came to visit once, during a diagnostic screening, and then I left the next day, even though I could tell she wanted me around longer. All throughout the largely unsuccessful chemotherapy I continued to make excuses, or tell her that it was ok, the next treatment would work. I sent her a card to wish her luck when her doctor recommended a risky surgery as a final resort to battle the illness.

And now she's lying in the hospital bed, days from death, and she told me during a phone call that she didn't want me there. I don't blame her. I've become something terrible in my striving to deny the possibility of someone else in my life, whom I love so much, without being reconciled. I've led myself both to believe and to act as if she isn't my daughter, as if I don't love her. It's more than that, actually, but I don't let myself think about anything past that.

But haven't I taken strides to make amends? Each time I came to visit, I saw it as a new chance to heal things between us. It was she, after all, who took the things I said the wrong way, who misinterpreted my intentions because of her mistrust. But it doesn't matter, because I'm still plenty at fault.

I look back at the picture of three-month-old Jeremy that I took just before leaving the curb that fateful morning. It would be so wonderful to just step back into the pictures and live out the rest of my days in a blissful world where I knew what was coming and could do the right thing. I'd been so eager to leave the pictures before, but now all I want is to go back into them. If I make a mistake, I can just find another picture that takes me back and do things right as I come to them.

But my real daughter, my Rose, will never know of all the things I've gone back and set right. In the real world she is dying of cancer while not knowing how truly sorry I am, and how much I regret the things that I've done (and the things that I haven't done). And to live in the world of pictures would mean to be forever aware of those eyes, at least until I got past any point at which real pictures were taken. Would I ever forget that sense of regret?

So now I'm driving once more up I-45, this time ignoring real calls that will affect my future. An ache is growing within me, exploding upon seeing the exit sign for the I-20 freeway. It's an ache that I haven't felt since moving from Dallas. Now I'm exiting west toward the hospital, and the ache has become an inner writhing, compelling me to turn around. There's something waiting for me, something that I've never allowed myself to see, but I keep driving. I'm pulling up to the hospital, along that road, within view of that intersection. I've tried to avoid it, tried not to think about it for so long. To see it again would be to recognize what I've lost, what was taken from me and what I let slip away. Yes, you've probably guessed it. This is the street where Allan died. Wayne's mother works at this hospital. This hospital is where Jeremy was born, and, of course, it's where Rose has been undergoing all of her operations.

I'm forcing myself to look at the intersection through tears. 'Allan's gone,' I continue to tell myself, breaking into greater sobs at each glance. 'He's gone, and you have to accept that. Your memory of him has to be enough.'

"Allan!" I suddenly scream as I pull into a parking lot. "I forgive you. I forgive you! I'm sorry. I'm sorry for what all of this has cost us." I beat the steering wheel, setting the horn off twice. Some people passing by look at me, concerned, but continue on their way. I climb out of the car after about five minutes and turn to look at the intersection once more. I'm still weeping, but the loss is suddenly not so palpable. "Allan," I repeat, now a whisper. "I forgive you. I let you go." A soft breeze flows across my face, a gentle caress on my cheek, and the rustling of leaves above seems to convey an approval of my choice. I take it in for a moment, then, still quite unsure of how I'm going to finish doing what I came to do, I enter the building.

My face is flaming red as I walk through the hallways of the hospital. No one notices; I'm sure crying people come through here every day. I ask the lady at the information desk where the Intensive Care Unit is. I make my way to the hallway where Rose is most likely to be.

There's Wayne, returning to her room. He doesn't see me, and he leaves the door cracked for some reason. I'm thankful. I step inside.

"Rose," I say, nothing like the way I've rehearsed a hundred times by now.

Rose looks at me, and immediately disgust comes across her face. Wayne says nothing, seeming conflicted and wanting nothing to do with this. "Of course," says Rose, "the one time I tell you not to come, you come right away."

I move closer to the bed. She says nothing, but continues to glare at me. She looks incredibly weak and thin. She has stopped wearing the wig that she bought for the chemotherapy, and her scalp looks to be a week out of boot camp. Her arms look so thin that I'd be surprised to see her actually lift something with them, and her face is gaunt, her skin clinging to the bones behind it. Her eyes betray a fatigue like nothing I've never known. I thought I had it rough, working eighty-hour weeks. Rose, my Rose, is staring death in the face with such dignity.

"Where are the children?" I ask.

"They're being taken care of. They'll be here in a little bit. Don't worry about them." She coughs, and Wayne offers her the glass of water sitting nearby. She takes a sip and thanks him before setting her head back against the pillow. "So, is this real enough for you? Real enough that you finally came to be a part of it?"

"Rose, I came here to tell you that I'm sorry."

She raises an eyebrow at me. "You're sorry? Hell just froze over. Sorry for what?"

I sit in a chair near the foot of the bed. "Rose, when your father died, he and I had been incredibly angry at each other, and when he left me like that, with you as a baby, I never quite forgave him, even though it was not his fault. I haven't been back here since then."

Rose looks confused. "Mom, did he die here, in this hospital? I thought you said he was killed instantly."

I nod. "He was killed instantly. But it was right out there, on that street." I point out the window. "I haven't been back by here since, even though it was not something conscious. Some secret part of my mind convinced me that I was too busy to do the things which would bring me back to this place, or to have any connection to it." I look over at Wayne for a second, then I look back to Rose. "I even let myself take a job that brought me away from Dallas altogether, so that I wouldn't even have the chance of passing by here again. Even though the job may end up killing me before too long. But you never left. You stayed here and made a life for yourself that kept bringing you here, and I sacrificed your part in my life just to keep from having to come by here and face what happened to your father thirty-two years ago." By now I can barely speak at all, and choke on yet another wave of sobs. How I still have the stamina to cry, I have no idea.

Rose is beginning to cry as well, and Wayne grabs her hand. I did always like that about him, even if I never let myself believe it: he can't stand to see her in distress. How he is getting through all of this, and how he's going to function after she leaves, is beyond me.

"Why are you telling me all of this now?" asks Rose. "What does this mean, now that I'm dying?"

"That's just it. I can't let someone else go with so much unresolved. Maybe there isn't much to do with the time that's left. And maybe you won't forgive me. That's up to you. But I can't let you die without saying that I'm sorry. And I am. I'm so very sorry, for everything. I love you."

My phone vibrates in my jacket, and I reach in the pocket to hang up on the caller. "Who is that?" asks Rose.

"If the last hundred or so calls are any indication, it's my boss, and by now he's probably letting me know that I'm fired. I don't care at this point."

"Oh, Mom!" Rose cries, and she raises those frail arms toward me. I stand up and move over to embrace her, not too tightly for her condition. "I love you, too. And deep down I didn't really want you to be absent when I die. If I had known about Dad, I would have done things differently all this time." She looks over at Wayne. "Except when it comes to Wayne."

"No," I reply, "this was completely on me. I should have learned how to forgive myself and move on. I should have learned to see things from your point of view. I'm so proud of you, and the life you've lived, even if I haven't shown it. I'm proud of the husband you picked, and I'm proud of the family you've made." She hugs me even more tightly.

"Stay with me?"

"Until the end."

Rose lets go and looks at Wayne. "Can you take a picture of us together? I want you to be able to hold on to this moment." Wayne nods and pulls a camera out of a duffle bag that he has brought along. I don't want a picture taken. It will just be one more temptation to return to walking about in pictures after Rose is gone. But that's my battle to fight, and it's time that I stopped putting my own security before my loved ones. I fix my hair, put arm around Rose's shoulder, and smile.

The Latest Ideas About Love

As one with history in the Protestant church I am able to comment on a distressing phenomenon we are witnessing. During the past several decades there has been a growing departure from the various Protestant denominations (and, possibly, from the Catholic and Anglican churches as well, though I cannot comment on those with any certainty) that has focused on the "lack of love" shown by many of the church's members. The sustained rate of this departure has resulted in many churches now advertising themselves first and foremost as "judgment-free zones" and the like. Alongside this ubiquitous emphasis on being able to "come as you are" has come an assumption of what love is (hence the claim that Christians by and large lack it). Both of these formations have served, for the most part, to further the incompleteness of what Christian life means both to the believer and the nonbeliever.

Consider the implications of the many claims about the "lack of love" shown by other Christians: that the speaker knows love completely. Often the people making these claims have been shunted in some way or another, and, wallowing in victimhood, draw attention to themselves and spite those who spurned them by pointing to their inadequacies. It is true that the Christ said "By their fruits ye shall know them," and we all fall short in showing love to others; there is much, much more that could be done with just another mustard seed of faith (spiritual effort).

But there are two things missing. One is the acknowledgement of the planks in our own eyes; public assertions of shortcomings in love are almost always one-sided, with no share in the blame taken by the person making the claim. It is not an appeal to a communal effort at reform, nor a call to prayer and fasting, but merely a vehement defense of rejecting other members of Christ's body for reasons that are otherwise indefensible.

Another thing that is missing is a solution. Pointing out of the errors of others is certainly not without precedent: the Gospel of St. Luke shows St. John the Forerunner calling the teachers of the law and others a "brood of vipers." But what comes after is a solution to the problem: "Bear fruits that befit repentance, and do not begin to say to yourselves, 'We have Abraham as our father'; for I tell you, God is able from these stones to raise up children to Abraham." As speaking in tongues is worthless to most without someone to interpret, so the pointing out of errors without also pointing to a solution to correcting them is worthless, and serves only to further divide the parties involved and cement them in belief of the righteousness of their respective positions.

As for "judgment-free zones," this reflects also the notion that God wants as many warms bodies singing praises to Him, or perhaps the notion that His Grace needs to be "sold" like a used car, packed with more incentives than that other guy offers. But God has told us that He wants us to be "hot" or "cold," not "lukewarm." Furthermore, the focus of the messages delivered are diluted with reminders that "we don't judge you" for this or that, instead of solemn attention to worship of the Lord.

Because of this "non-judgmental" aspect of the growing idea of love, the consistent conscious effort not to be judgmental or exclusive toward others is involved. But then this idea of love is just that: a conscious effort. There is nothing spiritual involved. A complete love is spontaneous, flowing from an intimate spiritual connection with Christ, the Source of all, whereas this idea of love flows from the mind, ultimately tied to the flesh and subversive to true love. Furthermore, by the fact that this is a consistent, conscious effort, the fact that the person is to be loving is often at the forefront of the thoughts, a foothold for the devil to instill pride in one that "I am such a loving person." Such a case is far worse than that of the one who errs in love but is humble and open to the instruction of the Holy Spirit.

In circumspect it is not surprising that this has taken place. Since the Catholic Church broke away from the Orthodox Church, taking errors with it, its countless offshoots have each broken away from each other based on some recognized error but carrying with them errors of their own, as the devil would have it. But in realizing what is occurring we can search for our own deficiencies in understanding love, as well as send up many prayers for true revelation to brought upon the faithful and shared with those that have ears to hear.

Pet Elections '12

The presidential elections this year have taken an interesting turn. One hand you have the Cats, whose candidate field has grown to unheard-of proportions. "House" cat Mitt Pawmney maintains a solid showing in the polls, but he is heavily challenged by Milk Party candidates Meowchelle Bachmann and Rick Purry. Candidates such as Gary Jumpson and Jon Huntscat have been given little media attention, while Herman Climb and Newt Clingrich hold on to hope in the eyes of the media and the Cat voters. Then there is the case of niche Cat Ron Prowl, who maintains a strong following among the Pets, but many find him to be too much of a Dat, a Cat/Dog hybrid who focuses on being as independent and inexpensive to care for as possible (as opposed to Cogs, who are known to manipulate and completely bankrupt their owners, though many deny it), and stands against moving on pounds to keep them from killing animals, so it is too soon to know what his chances are in the primaries.

Among the Dogs, however, incumbent Bark Opawma remains essentially unchallenged. Rumors have surfaced that one of the Blue Dogs might come to challenge him, especially as some see him as too much of a Cog, but many say that, due to lax efforts in breeding, few Blue Dogs remain these days, and those that do would not make viable candidates.

Many voters say they are fed-up with the fact that they only get to choose between Cats and Dogs. Some believe that a third party, likely birthed from the Milk Party due to its Dat influences, will appear within the next few years. It will certainly make things interesting if it does.

A Note, Seven Months In

I've been married for seven months now, and let me tell you, when you are irritated, flat-out angry, or insulted, don't keep it a secret. At the same time, neither let your forgiveness (which should always occur) be a secret. Be open to the impact that your spouse wants to have upon your life; let his/her encouragement lift you up from any depth.

Comments on St. Symeon’s “Practical and Theological Texts,” Part I

This is the first in a series of blogs based on The Philokalia, Vol. 4.

From the first of the “One-Hundred and Fifty-Three Practical and Theological Texts”:

To have faith is to die for Christ and for His commandments.

Denying oneself the sensual pleasures, giving up desires for food, comfort, recognition, and security, one acquires the humility to receive love through the Holy Spirit to follow the commandments (Love the Lord with all of your heart, mind, soul and spirit…Love your neighbor as yourself).

…to believe that this death brings life; to regard poverty as wealth, and lowliness and humiliation as true glory and honour…”

Without attachment to material things, or to high regard among others, one does not seek them but sparingly, when absolutely needed (if this ever occurs). In not seeking the material and recognition, one is uninhibited to search the Spirit and act in love toward others.

More to come!

A collection of thoughts on austerity measures for our federal government

These are ideas I've seen around the blogosphere that I like which will reduce our potential future national debt (and maybe even reduce the debt we already have!).

Eliminate the follow departments/administrations...
EPA
Department of Education (the evidence for its complete failure to maintain quality of education is incredible)

Reduce the size/authority of
DEA
FDA
Department of Agriculture
FCC
HHS
MMS (or whatever it is called now)

End agricultural subsidies, "green energy" subsidies, and cut foreign aid in half.
Repeal "Obamacare" and the recent omnibus financial regulatory law.
Simplify the tax code, reducing the need for IRS agents.
End the "War on Drugs," and legalise marijuana, if not other drugs as well.
Adjust the age of eligibility for Social Security to account for increased life expectancy.
Close our foreign military bases, or require that all expenses incurred in transporting troops and maintaining the operations of those bases be covered by the country the base is in.

Christ in the Tomb pt 2

Not only is the way of nature, the way of flesh, to kill of all traces of Christ, all holiness, but even the role of Christ is constantly attacked naturally by society. Consider that Jesus is increasingly thought of by many as a "good man," a prophet, a hippie, a great teacher, and a number of other roles that can be played by mere humans. His Deity is slowly eliminated, thereby reducing Him to a man, leaving Him in the tomb. We must remember and make known who He is.