Love Always, Always Love (Letter 1)

Dearest Sam,

I'm just beginning to get settled, but it was all I could do to get my things off the truck and into the apartment before I was reaching for pen and paper. I long for the sound of your voice but at this moment my cell is dead and the charger is somewhere in the 50 unopened boxes that currently serve as my furnishings. Saying goodbye was nearly more than I could handle, despite twelve months to prepare myself for that moment. I didn't want to go. And I'm sorry for making you endure this pain as much as I am sorry for having to go through it myself. But it is what we must do. This past year has gone by so quickly. And the coming year will as well, I hope. I really hope.

Everyone keeps telling me that our relationship can only grow stronger by being apart, but that's too easy to say. It's incredibly difficult to do. I'm doing my best to sustain myself thinking about the day we met. Remember? For now, that memory is how I continue forward.

- - -

It was my sophomore year of college, just about half way through the semester. I walked across campus on a rainy evening in search of something to eat to energize me so I could get through the hours of midterm studying. There you were standing outside with your friends smoking a cigarette outside the student union. You didn't care that the rain was drenching you, or that it took you three tries to light it. You were having a grand time, a big smile across your face as you listened to your friends telling mindless jokes and poking fun at classmates. You looked chilly, but as if you were trying to ignore it, like you hoped that the smoke would travel inside of you and serve as a replacement for the jacket you clearly left in your dorm. I stared at you, under the safety of my umbrella, your preoccupation allowed me to gaze at your beauty. Your sandy hair, stuck to your forehead, sending rivulets of cool fall rain down your face. You didn't have a care in the world. I was entranced from that moment, frozen, stuck staring at you.

I had no intention of introducing myself. I was forever too shy for that. It was all I could do to respond when someone directly spoke to me. There was no way I would have been comfortable approaching a stranger, let alone one as gorgeous as you. But I got lucky, because I didn't have to come to you. Jack made that happen. Him I recognized. He had taken a class with my roommate freshman year. They had worked on a project together and on more than one occasion that work had spilled over into my dorm.

Jack spotted me staring and tapped your right elbow, as if suggesting you should look to your right. You were lost in the story your other friend was busy telling, so it tooo a second nudge before your attention was broken and you glanced in my direction. You looked back at Jack with a shrug, not caring that a probably creepy looking guy was leering at you. The third nudge seemed to get your attention as you glanced back at me. Your eyes met mine and they held my gaze for a second. There was warmth, and I could feel you smiling by only looking deeper into your eyes. You were silly laughing along with your friends as the story being told continued. But I had your attention. It immediately made me very aware that I was stockstill in the middle of the sidewalk looking a fool. And I quickly remembered where I was headed and began moving toward the student union doors. Just as I pulled open the door with my left hand, I felt yours placed on top of mine.

"Wait."

I paused, too intimidated to turn and meet your eyes.

"Excuse me," you tried again.

"Um...um, sorry," was my only offering.

"Sorry about what?"

"For staring, I just...I, I, I just got distracted for a minute."

"Distracted? You seemed pretty focused," you responded, followed by the cutest chuckle I'd ever heard.

"No, I mean," I still hadn't looked at you, "sorry."

"It's ok." Your hand moved from its place atop mine on the door handle, to my left shoulder. "Are you ok?"

Your touch surprised me, and I too released the door and it began to close, catching my still open umbrella and causing me to stumble as I attempted to both catch the door and save my umbrella from being smashed. You pulled your hand back, suddenly aware of the events you had set in motion, and again you cutest of chuckles escaped your soft pink lips.

"Now I'm sorry!" you spit out amidst your laughter. "I didn't mean to..."

Your voice trailed off as I righted myself and closed my umbrella. I shook it, rather emphatically at my right side, before I finally let my eyes meet yours, just for a second.

"It's alright. These types of things, they well...they happen to me."

"At least you remembered your umbrella! You'll stay dry, unlike me...of course I'm assuming I didn't just completely destroy it"

I chortled. "Yeah I'm sure it's fine."

There was a long pause and I could feel you staring at my profile, just measuring me up, deciding if my awkwardness was endearing or annoying.

"Well," I said with a bit of a sigh. "I'm off to dinner."

And with that I pulled the door open once again and stepped inside.

"Wait!" I heard you exclaim as the door silently pulled shut. But my timidness kept me from turning back, and down the stairs I went to the dining hall.

- - -

Despite that clumsy introduction, somehow you saw more. You saw the man within those reservations. And now, 4 years later, you're my everything. I wouldn't dare look away if our eyes met. I'd be lost again, dumbfounded at your beauty.

We can get through this. We will get through this. Together. 364 days until I wrap my arms around you, my love.


Love Always, Always Love,

Eric

Pale Green Leaves

In the corner of the garden, away from the brick path there woven among the greenest of grasses, a tiny seed had fallen. It wasn't put there by design. The gardener didn't cultivate it. It wasn't nurtured. But still it managed to get enough water, enough sun, that from beneath the soil, I tiny stem had pushed through the overlooked piece of dirt. As a sapling, the earth was dry and skies did not open often. But the from the sapling a tree continued to grow. The gardener, by now, had seen the sad, unhealthy plant. It was too difficult for him to reach. And he had too much else to care for in the garden.

As time passed, the tree did not grow big and strong like an oak. It remained small. It's branches were limp. It's leaves a pale green, not vibrant like the trees that surrounded it. The others tree grew, and their branches reached far into the sky, aiming for the sun. When the rains came, they drank it up. Yet still, the small, lonely tree in the corner of the garden survived.

The garden wall had began to crumble in certain places. The gardener had grown weary, tired, unable to manage all of what he had created. And so, the edges, the corners of the garden were left in tangles. Vines began to take over. Grasses grew tall. Flowers ceased to bloom. And in the furthest corner of the garden, too far from the path, now covered in weeds and moss, stones tumbled from the once sturdy wall.

The small, fragile tree with drooping limbs and the pale leaves seemed to enjoy the extra space. It seemed to stand a little taller, stretch a little wider. Time went on and vines choked out the tall grand trees that hood stood around the weak tree. But the chaos and the freedom to be, allowed the tree to grow. Even the gardener took notice. He found himself caught in a shadow in the center of the garden. A shadow he didn't recognize. The unfamiliar shade sent him searching. He hadn't been to far reaches of his garden in years. But his feeble legs sought out the once beautiful meandering brick path. He made his way through the garden, clumsily, tripping over roots that had stretched across the bricks.

He made his was to the fringe, a corner of the garden he had long since forgotten. And there he was confused by what he had found. He no longer saw the steady, solid, tall oaks that once reached high toward the sky, dwarfing all they surrounded. Vines hung from their branches, dry and broken branches littered the ground. He stretched his neck, pondering what could have cast the shadow over the center of this once grand garden. He caught a glimpse of green beyond the dead trees before him. His foot lifted off the path and came down cracking the fallen limbs. He stepped forward into the garden. He found his way through the tangled mess of vines just as he reached the wall, he turned toward the corner, and there...there before him was the largest grandest tree he had ever seen. His mouth dropped agape, his eyes began to tear, he leaned to the side, propping himself against a pile of fallen rocks. He couldn't imagine what had become of that little sapling. The one he didn't bother cultivating, the one he never bothered to prune.

The tree stood strong and tall. It's limbs danced in the gentlest of breezes. Its leaves produced a sweet smell that drifted through the garden and beyond the crumbled walls. It stood where once there had been many. Now only one. And even though it had overcome, it had survived, the tree was still sad. All the years it had been alone, weak and barely clinging to life, it had loved the garden that surrounded it. But now, in its moment of grandeur, all it had loved was no more.

The gardener looked on, for the first time really noticing the forgotten seed that now towered before him and he sensed the sadness. He dropped to his knees, letting out a sigh. "I'm sorry I let this happen. You stand alone in a broken mess." Tears filled his eyes and rolled off his sunken, brown cheeks one at a time. A gentle breeze drifted through the opening where once the wall had been and twirled the lower branches of the tree, then a gust broke across the plain and hit the tree with force, tangling the even some of the stronger branches. And it was if the tree responded to the gardener, "I was here. All I ever wanted was love. I was right here. And even though you never really saw me, never cared for me a day in your life, here I stand, taller and stronger than anything you created."

The wind drifted away and the tree came to rest with the final flutter of the its leaves. And the gardener saw the pain and the sadness of the trees final words. Now it was strong and tall and bigger than any of the other trees. But the others...they were gone. And again the tree was alone.

He rose up to his feet and stepped forward. Passing through the lower reaches of its branches and resting his hands against the hardened, cracked skin of its trunk. "I'm sorry my Willow, my Weeping Willow".

The Storm (Ch 2 part 2)

Grandma Langer held him in her arms as they both shed tears of sorrow. She knew this moment would come but she had never anticipated it would feel like this. Her heart broke for Colton who cried for the mother and father he never knew. He rested his head again her chest as he calmed himself to a steady sob. The rain still fell on the other side of the glass. The wind whipped the willow fronds through the air. The weaker ones broke off and were sent into the street and neighboring yards. The house rattled just a little whenever there was a rumble of thunder. She shared Mother Nature's emotions. All the memories of that day were stirred to the surface for her as well.

It had been a calm day, much like that of any other for the Langers. Grandma was in the kitchen baking a chocolate cake and Grandpa was looking after their pride and joy. Colton was only 3 and they loved the chance to look after him while his parents took a vacation. He sat in the middle of the living room floor surrounded by his cars. He would drive them from one of the room to the other, circle back around and bring to park beneath the coffee table. Grandpa tried to makes revving noises and race the cars, but Colton was an orderly child. He carefully drove the cars, never crashing them. The cars didn't make any noises because, "They aren't real, Grandpa. These are toys." Grandpa was surprised at the amazing logic and frankness of his comment.

Dinner was served around 4:30 just as the last few rays of sun peaked out over the hills in the West. Their was a strong chill in the air, even for late January. Grandma had placed a large bowl in the center of the table followed by a smaller basket, before setting three plates on the side. She reached forward and scooped a big portion of spaghetti onto a plate and set it in front of her husband. She repeated with a much smaller amount and set it down for Colton. She knew it was his favorite, as it was for her son, Hollings. Lastly, a portion that's size was somewhere in the middle for herself. She placed a piece of bread on each plate and retrieved two glasses of water and a cup of apple juice from the kitchen counter. She took her seat and Grandpa instinctively bowed his head and said grace.

As she reached for her fork, the phone rang. She smiled sweetly at Colton and motioned with her head in the direction of the phone. Grandpa Langer pushed his chair back and stood. He disappeared into the living room for a moment.

"Who is it?" she called from the table.

"Hold on. If you wanted to know, you could of answered it yourself."

He rarely spoke back to her. But he greatly disliked things coming between him and his dinner.

"Hello?" he answered as he placed the receiver next to his ear.

She continued to smile across the table as she waited for him to return before beginning the meal she had cooked.

"Marjorie, you better come in here."

She quickly placed her napkin on the table and pushed back her chair. She stepped lightly toward the phone.

"Now Ed, what is it, we're sitting down to dinner."

And that was how it happened. The airline had called the Langers with the tragic news. The plane took off as scheduled, but approximately four hours into the flight, attempts to reach the crew were unsuccessful. There was no trace of the plane, and it was feared that it went down somewhere over the North Atlantic.

For the first two or three weeks it was easy distracting Colton. His parents were supposed to be on vacation. His grandparents held onto the hope that somehow there son and his wife, Angela had survived. But days turned into weeks and months, and nothing was ever found. No debris, no bodies. Nothing. The airline, police, aviation experts, the media. No one was able to explain what had happened. There was no way to reach a conclusion. But time went on without the younger Langers. Colton's fourth birthday came and went. Then his fifth. He went off to kindergarten. Then his sixth. His seventh. His eighth. Grandma and Grandpa Langer had held out for some form of closure. Something. Anything, for a long time. But the hope of an answer faded with time. They raised Colton as their own, working to give him everything he needed. Most of all, they wished him happiness despite his circumstance.

A flash of lightning broke her concentration, and she remembered where she was. Colton still rested in her arms, but had drifted to sleep. He looked so peaceful though his cheeks remained red and his eyes were wet. She dried his face with the apron she always wore. He loved it because it smelled of strawberries and chocolate. She left him on his bed, propping a pillow under his head and placing a blanket over his legs. At the door, she turned back, flicked the light switch down and wiped her own tears from her face. She paused a moment longer before pulling the door closed and returning to the kitchen.

The Stories Within

Every creative mind draws its inspiration from somewhere. Something drives them to create what it is they love to do. Whether it be in the things we see, the people we meet, the places we go, or the experiences we have, there is a root, a driving motivation to the passion in all of us.

For me, it has been increasingly evident for quite some time. You could ask me to explain it but I just haven't been able to put my finger on the reason yet. So what is it? Glad you asked, otherwise the remainder of this blog would be rather pointless. I find passion and inspiration in the music of The Classic Crime. Simply pressing play and letting one track filter through the speakers on my stereo or weave its way through the cords of my earbuds and ideas begin to flow. Something grows out of nothing. Walls fall in my mind. I maintain focus. Words come. My talent may be rudimentary at best, but my writing serves a purpose greater than for you to read. That topic has been addressed a few months ago though.

Let's get back on point. For me the music just paints the picture of the story I want to tell. Each one of us has our own personal story to tell from the journey that is life. Yet for me, it's much more than that. It's not about just telling my story. Or perhaps, even telling my story at all. It's about all those other stories that are there. They are there, deep within me, just waiting to be released. Waiting to be assembled in the right format. Waiting for me to tell them. Waiting to reach the right audience. And with the proper cue, all this will be achieved in time. It comes back to the simple key that unlocks all those hidden pathways and sets those ideas free.

As time marches forward, I hope you'll continue to journey with me as the stories within me reveal themselves and take the form of written word.

The Search for Words

It's been a while. So long I feel almost as if I've forgotten how to string together a coherent and eloquent sentence, much less a paragraph or piece worthy of an audience. The familiar melodies and beats of my favorite inspiration reverberate from my stereo as I lie mostly strewn across the sectional in the corner of the living room with the beady eyes of 20 fish looking over my right shoulder. Am I lost? Has my ability, my way with words, my tendency to create disintegrated? There is much to write, and yet I cannot begin to piece together what it may be. The only Storm that I can imagine is that which crashes through my thoughts and disrupts my means of writing interesting literary discourse.

Perhaps I'm thinking too much. No. That can't be it.

Perhaps I'm just worn out from the hours upon hours of overtime spent at my less exciting, albeit financially necessary, job.

Perhaps I'm not trying hard enough. Is my mind really in it?

If you have any idea, please, I seek advice. I'll be here, eating unhealthily, watching TV and trying to assemble the thousands of words that lie before me into a puzzle that in its completion depicts something worthy of your attention.

World Upside Down

I am not a perfect man. I am not a perfect employee. I am not a perfect son. I am not a perfect lover. And my lack of, but ever endeavor to be perfect makes me who I am. I am not alone. The world is full of people just like me. That's what makes the world a wonderful place. It's the revelation of something new, something profound that spotlights our individual imperfections. I've seen plenty of it over my lifetime. Surprise brings out the best and worst in people. It leads people to murder. It leads people to love, to hate. It leads people to cheat, to steal. It leads people to die, to start living. Surprise is a multifaceted cog that brings about unexpected and unplanned outcomes. Yet so many of us are in love with the notion. "don't tell me, surprise me." "let's throw a surprise party" "you were a surprise, Johnny". Surprise is not inherently good. But that's exactly what we're brought up to believe.

Lives can change in an instant, in the simple utterance of a word. We all continue to go on living. We all make decisions, seemingly small, every hour of every day. The world does not cease to revolve around the sun. Stars do not fall from the sky. Tides do not stop the ocean from swelling. Decisions are a natural part of life whether we appreciate it or not. Our responses to those decisions, our reactions make us who we are. They define our generation, our individuality. Write your own story, whether you choose to blend in or turn the world upside down.

The Storm (Ch 2)

Summer was his favorite time of year. But then again, that's what most kids would say. School was nothing but a memory, fireflies danced in the warm air, and stars shone bright in the night sky. Grandpa would set up the tent in the backyard and for a few weeks each summer, Colton Alexander would go on all kinds of adventures, even if they were mostly imagined. He had conquered the great land of Itsa across the Granjer Isles just west of the Open Sea. He had defeated fierce creatures that threatened his home atop Mt. Kill A Man Tomorrow. And he had saved his Damn Fool in a Dress from being eaten by tigers. She lived on the other side of the fence and every now and then Colton's grandparents would let him venture over to the other side to spend some time with Avery Spring. Her parents worked far too much and she was left to the easily distracted attention of her older brother Addison.

Colton's mother and father had passed away so long ago that he had no memories left of them. Grandma and Grandpa Langer were all that he knew. They had brought him this far in life, and he was sure that after completing the second grade, he was capable of anything, but more importantly that they would always be there.

He had always been a rowdy child, climbing trees, breaking vases, and even once starting a small fire by trying to use the toaster to melt the prisoners he had captured while playing with the Cowboys and Indians that were once his father's. But his grandparents didn't hold that against him. They loved him the only way they knew how. And they showed it every day.

Most people in town knew Grandpa Langer because he was a sort of hero from fighting in World War II, and those that didn't know his story soon found out. He loved recounting his days on the European front and Colton always listened, poised at the edge of his seat, ready to hear the exciting details of his grandpa's tails of combat.

Grandma Langer was famous throughout the county for other reasons. She made the best desserts you could possibly devour. Her specialties were pies of any flavor and chocolate chip cookies, all of which took home more than one blue ribbon at the County Fair each fall. She didn't like the attention much. She just smiled a lot and nodded her head in appreciation when people recognized her or complemented her delicious treats. It was Colton though who benefited most from her skills in the kitchen.

There wasn't a dinner that went by without dessert being served. It didn't matter the circumstances, cake, pie, cookies or a tart of some flavor made its way to the table between Grandpa and Colton. Even as a boy, Colton knew his grandma took pride in her skills in the kitchen. She had learned from her mother, who had learned from her mother and so on. It was tradition and the recipes were a family heritage. From time to time, he liked to help Grandma bake, but mostly he just liked to lick the spoon after she was done mixing the batter.

He always had a smile on his face and that made Grandma and Grandpa all the more happy. It was extremely rare for tears to fill his big blue eyes, but when they did it broke their heart to see them roll off his cheek. One time in particular happened in the first grade. Jimmy Bartholomew had pushed him off a swing and pushed his face into the dirt. Later he said he didn't know why he did it but he had seen it on TV. This only reinforced the idea to the Langers. They didn't own a TV and after this kind of outburst, and from a first grader no less, they vowed to never let one enter their home.

It was that summer, the one after the second grade, when Colton's life began to really change. He began asking a lot of questions about living with his grandparents and where his Mom and Dad were. It was difficult and painful for the Langers. They didn't want to hurt him. It hurt enough to think of the story themselves. But Colton insisted on knowing what had happened to his parents. He feared, like many children who don't know their parents, that they didn't love him and that they had simply abandoned him.

The Langers tried to distract him and persuade him to concentrate on enjoying his summer, but as the weeks drug on his persistence only grew stronger and his smile seemed to fade away into the pale skin of face. He refused to go out and play but retreated to his room where he spent most of his time sitting on the bench at the window, staring at the willow tree as its limp branches swayed with the gentlest of breezes.

On a gray and chilly July afternoon, Grandma Langer found Colton where he had been for much of the past week. His head rested on the cool glass that separated him from the rest of the world. She plodded carefully across the old wooden floor and found a spot on the corner of his bed. She looked at him and willed him to be happy again, to be that boy she remembered. But he was fully committed to knowing the truth. She knew this would not end until he knew. And so, while Grandpa fiddled yet again in the garage, she leaned forward and grasped Colton's hand. His head turned to hers and she offered the comfort of a warm smile. At first he seemed so brave as she recounted the fateful day five years prior. The day the plane lost contact with the tower and simply vanished from the radar. The day that Hollings and Angela Alexander disappeared forever. But the tears came.

He seemed so fragile in that moment. She pulled him from his seat and wrapped her arms around him. He felt the warmth of her love but couldn't find comfort in her embrace. He missed them. He didn't remember them, but he still missed them. She squeezed him tighter but he only cried more. She rocked him gently and hummed the song she had when he first came to live them. It helped, if only a little, as his sobbing slowly ebbed.

She raised her head, tears filling her own eyes as well. And watched the rain fall on the other side of the glass.