Sins of the Father – con’t

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The wad of money bulged in my pocket. It was a modest sum, but in this time, it was a fortune. I knew it wouldn’t last long, but at least it would help carry them through the years my father would be away at war. Between my contribution and my father’s regular installments from Europe’s front lines, my grandmother could breathe a bit easier, pay her rent, feed her children, and perhaps save some for the future, at least until my father returned home.

Rose Rizzo sat across the table from me now, my father by her side. It was just the three of us for the moment, so I took the opportunity to tend to the business of my visit. “I have something for you, an inheritance of sorts.” Their blank faces watched me with nothing more than cautious anticipation for whatever it was I would next say. I pulled the wad of $500 from my pocket. It wasn’t much to me, but to them, it was the equivalent of about $8500, a fortune to a poor Italian family struggling through The Depression. I figured it was as much as I could do without causing a ripple in reality. They must still struggle, there must still be strain, but I knew that this would give, at least, temporary relief; giving them hope for the future.

I put the sum on the table, all bills were printed in 1940 and purchased at auction. The look on their faces was pure shock. I knew further explanation would be requested, but it was my duty to avoid too many questions. I broke the silence with, “It’s what my father asked me to give to you. He was a fortunate man, and asked that his wealth be sent to his family. This is your portion.” Rose slowly reached to touch the stack of paper, as though she was checking to see if it was real. Her eyes met mine and tears tumbled down her plump cheeks. Her features were weathered for a woman in late forties, only a few years older than myself, a stark representation of what hard times can do to the body. She slid her hand to mine and touched my gently, words of thanks were on her lips, although they were unintelligible. I smiled, tears now running down my own face. My father, a man of little emotion, was smiling like I had never seen. “It’s a miracle,” he said, “a true miracle.”

I smiled and sniffled, “There are a few conditions, though.” Their look of shocked joy turned to concern and skepticism. I heard my father say what he always said, “There’s always a catch.”

“Nothing too restricting,” I assured him, “All my father asked was that you not tell your husband – your father,” I gestured to Sonny, “nor anyone else. This money is for you, Rose, to use as you need it. It would be in your best interest if you pretended like it didn’t exist and carry on as usual. It’s for your peace of mind. When your husband doesn’t bring home enough to pay the bills, you can rest assured that you can make up the difference. Save it, buy a house one day, and live life.”

I looked at my dad, whose smile had returned, “You are her angel. It’s life as usual for you. Pretend as though this doesn’t exist and continue to do what you are doing. You’ll know what to do with this in the years to come,” my words sounded almost cryptic, even to myself, but how else was I to say it? Nothing could change, he would still go to war, he would still return, he would tend to her, and she would still die long before my birth, but at least the years would be a bit easier and the abuse she endured from her husband would, perhaps, be a bit more tolerable knowing that she didn’t need him.

After a time, it seemed that Rose began to accept that this was, in fact, her money, and I would not reach to take it back. She put the money in the pocket of her housecoat and folded her hands in front of her. Her original polite countenance had returned and we picked up our idle conversation. She was exactly the woman my father had told me, kind, considerate, loving, and full of laughter. We talked for about an hour or so about life and I took the liberty of telling them a bit about myself, as an introduction of sorts. Impressed as they were with the education I was afforded and the experiences I had, they couldn’t remotely comprehend how different life was for me…in my time. To them, all the things I shared were a fairy tale, and honestly, looking around at the paltry apartment, it seemed as far-fetched to me as it was to them.

***

I made my way down the stoop, it was dark now, and the lighting was poor. The Brooklyn street was so old, but yet newer than I knew it to be. My heart was torn between breaking and overwhelming love and satisfaction. I knew that I had done the right thing and although leaving my father again tore me apart in a way worse than the day he died, I knew what was to come for him, and at least he could rest a little easier knowing that his family was safe.

I walked along the street, I had only a few blocks before I reached my destination, but before I made it too far, I heard someone yell, “Hey!” I stopped as I heard the approaching footsteps and turned to address them. My dad was running after me, a sight I had never seen, since he was already a severe asthmatic and 51 when I was born. Before I had a chance to say a word, he said, a little breathlessly, “I don’t know who you are, or how this all came to be, but I wanted to say ‘Thank you.'” I smiled at him and before I even knew what I was doing, I reached out and hugged him. “It’s the least I could do,” I said.

“You don’t know what you have done for us. You’ve changed our lives,” he said, catching his breath, and I think I detected a little flutter of emotion in his voice.

“Yes, I do,” I replied simply. “Don’t let this change you, Sonny. You still have work to do and a life to lead. You’re a strong, loyal, and good man. Continue to be those things. Just know that you have a guardian angel watching over you and you will live a long life, with children of your own. If you go forward as things are right now, although perhaps a little easier, you will become a wise man. Don’t change a thing.” He nodded as he absorbed my words. I smiled as I turned to continue my journey home, even though it ripped my heart away from him for a third time.

I turned to continue my journey, but then I paused. With one last glance over my shoulder I saw his handsome face and said, looking at the moon overhead, “Oh, and we will land on the moon one day, you’ll see.” I smiled at him, knowing that only a few short years ago, he told his friend during a street stick-ball game, that a moon landing would never happen.

Cage of Souls Revisited

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Well, I’ve apparently run out of steam, after only a few days, mind you, on telling you my story. It’s not that I couldn’t face the facts of my reality, it’s just that amidst the rape and intrigue, I’ve realized that my life is just not that interesting to me. It’s just “life.” So, the writer’s block continued. But if I am to polish these writing skills, I knew I had to just sit down and write. Although I wasn’t sure what there was to say, until last night.

Last night, around 11pm, in the twilight of my sleep, a bit of a poetic thought occurred to me and I realized that there was a spark, an ember of thought.


In that moment, I decided to rework, with the goal of mastery, the novel I wrote many years ago called, “Cage of Souls.” To further my inspiration, I woke this morning not only to the sound of my roommate (who is also my soon to be ex-husband) showering and banging around on the floor above, the owl announced his seasonal arrival to my rooftop with her distinctive “who who,” which trickled down the chimney and whispered its echo into my room. I had given the owl meaning long ago, and I knew it was time, I had to write. So, I’m going to tear this book to pieces starting now. Here we go…

Cage of Souls

Preface

The fabric of time is as thin as an aged parchment, as fragile and delicate as the wings of a butterfly in its final hours. It melts away in the rushing waters, smolders with the rise and fall of the sun and turns to ash as the seasons stake their claim to each generation. But somewhere in the fibers of the fabric of time are the imprints of significance, no matter how big or small, that people, places and things leave behind. Stamped, embroidered and branded into history, each moment doomed to be repeated. The place where these moments repeat is sacred, it is the place where time remembers and the ghosts linger.

Sacred ground blankets this earth. It is hallowed ground, consecrated in the blood of thousands of souls. Among those are the souls left to wander, tortured by lives that were stolen too soon, or perhaps there are dues their soul has yet to pay. Unknowingly, they are now doomed to repeat their steps until the end of time, or until someone comes along to save them. The tragic truth is that no one is coming to save them; their souls are woven into time’s delicate, yet unravelable, fabric. Each step they repeat tangles them tighter and they become locked away for eternity. I suppose it is fortunate for them that they are none-the-wiser. But sometimes, for reasons I have yet to truly understand, a modern time will cross paths with these trapped souls and a unique individual will catch a glimpse of a world that no longer exists. When that happens, modern people wrack their brains for an explanation. They eventually try to dismiss their encounters as an overactive imagination or perhaps a random event that happens in the brain. As time marches on, only a handful of ghost stories are fortunate enough to be lumped in with stories told around a campfire.

I can understand the need to make sense of these events that lack any logical explanation or scientific validation, but sometimes there truly are no logical answers. Science has yet to explain everything, which is why science, like medicine, is a “practice.”

***

Among the places lost to time is a small desert town, its archaeology preserved by the arid climate and its sinful greed, lust, wrath, and pride preserved by the timeless pain of sudden, and swift, defeat. The tales of Wild West stories known the world over, and among the entertaining tales of ghostly happenings that occur on a regular basis in Tombstone, Arizona, there is a lesser known story that is worth telling. It is a ghost story that only the most avid ghost adventurers know, but truth be told, they only know a small fraction of it.

Throughout the years, it has been said that there is a woman in white who has been seen descending the basement staircase of the notorious Bird Cage Theater. Initially, I suspected that this lady fell victim to those Deadly Sins which had claimed so many. Whatever the reason, though, all we truly knew was that she has been repeating her steps, getting more tangled in the fabric of time, as she descended the backstage staircase of The Birdcage Theater every moment, day and night, presumably, since the doors closed in 1892.

The fragments of her story vanish along with her spirit, right before your very eyes. But her end is where my story begins. You see I know why she wanders and I know who she needed to set her free. It is her curse which runs in my veins. She has been waiting for me…and I, unknowingly, had been waiting for her.

The Adulteress

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Continuing to write fiction…one day at a time. 

If I were a different type of person, I could likely find a reason for such treason. I could blame my parents for being too strict, perhaps, in some cosmic sense, I’m to pay for the sins of my father…and maybe even the sins of my mother. But really, the decision to become an adulteress is not a conscious one. It is a vulnerable one. Men and women alike, there are few, if any, who move through affairs with malicious intent. Unlike those devilish “one-night stands,” affairs are a balm to soothe an aching heart, they fill those tiny voids in your heart that you never realized existed. They are an awakening, a realization, in a way. They force you to see your reflection with foreign eyes, the face is familiar, but the thoughts are entirely new. Nothing is sacred anymore, your beliefs, your morals, not gone, only changed. You find yourself asking, “What do you truly hold dear?” Then, you struggle even more, trying to reconcile the person you’ve become…or perhaps always were. 

Then, of course, you get found out. Perhaps through admission, or, more often, you get caught. Either way, the villagers will happily light the pyre beneath your feet, burning you for not adhering to their moral code. Yet as your soul drifts to some new dimension, you discover that the morality preached is seldom righteous. The villagers have their own dirty little secrets, their lives are a lie, and you have become their sacrifice to absolve their own sins. 

It was never a life goal to view relationships as disposable. I soon found myself asking, “When did loyalty become possession?” I was not in love anymore, my marriage had become a contract, my life one of obligation and possession. My shoulders had become weak from carrying so many burdens, sustaining verbal abuse, and floundering through countless failures. It is probably a bit easier to understand that my dalliance was inevitable. A hand was extended, offering to lift my burdens, a heart was offered to fill those spaces that had been recklessly abandoned. I’m sure, as human as you are, you might possibly offer some understanding. 

New Fiction

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I’ve decided to start writing again…I don’t really understand why I ever stop. I suppose it’s because it drains me to think about topics and, then weave words that desire to be read. But here I go…again. 

“I am an adulteress.” I repeated this to myself, as I searched the reflection in the mirror for any sign that the woman I once was still existed. In just two short years, the youfulness had dwindled from my eyes, and began to show as a new dullness in both my skin and eyes reflected back to me. Apparently, all of the trials and tribulations I had endured in my first forty years didn’t take nearly the toll that just two years spent in the beautiful turmoil of passion provided. 

I suppose there is still a level of naïveté that demonstrates itself, even at the age of thirty-eight. Looking back, I could equate myself to a child, desperately seeking the comfort, the safe  embrace, only a parent could provide. At the time, I was as lost as a piece of driftwood, carried across the miles of open ocean, with no particular destination. All I wanted was a safe place to rest my weary heart. It was quite pathetic, in retrospect. But somehow, I convinced myself that nothing mattered, no sin too great, for the warm sanctuary of an equally aching heart would heal all indiscretions. 

A Sober Thought

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In these moments I have found a greater appreciation for my solitary condition. These moments have forced me to stop running from my mind and give up the trappings of materialism. Had I never known love, I would not have found a true appreciation for the most simple weed and the vast abilities of the mind. Through love, lies the desire to know something greater, which can only be “the self.” It is not a matter of rejecting loneliness, it is simply realizing that my life has been one of distraction and indulgence, neglect. 

It is the plight of many to say that everything in our world has been discovered, mastered, and neatly packaged – but this is simply the lot of the lazy mind, which has been nurtured by a society with little regard for the spirit of beautiful wonderment. 

To seek is the greatest gift we can give ourselves. 

Thoughts on Inspiration

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They…whoever “they” are…say that inspiration can strike anywhere at any time. I say, hog wash! The only place I find inspiration is when my mind is at ease, at rest, and very much in the present. I observe things differently in these states. I have found these moments when sober…but they are fleeting and seem forgettable. Enter marijuana. It’s not what so many naysayers think it is…it eases my mind and body, releases me from the shackles of my reality, and allows me to dream! It is instant inspiration, instant imagination, but most of all, instant peace of mind…which is simply priceless.