Garrison

“God bless you,” he whispered in my ear as we clapped each other on the back, “If I don’t make it, take care of her.” A rumbling vibration from the propellers throbbed through the cargo plane. “I will,” I replied. His eyes smiled, crinkling at the edges, road maps etching out his temples. We pulled away and slung our canvas bags over our backs, and abandoned the plane. The extraordinary world that we’d known without war stretches out behind us; a thin horizon in the back of our minds. I didn’t know that our paths would later stop crossing for good.


Alice

You are in default of your Lease Agreement because you have failed to pay all rent, and/or late fees or any other charges owed to me totalling $3,280.50. If you do not pay the amount due within SEVEN (7) days from receipt of this notice, your rental is terminated. You are to surrender, and demand is hereby made for you to remove all personal property from, and deliver the possession of said premises by returning all keys to me within SEVEN (7) days of this notice.
-Ralph Charsie

I’ve been growing my ivy plant since the ninth grade. Just recently it has started to wilt, hanging vines over the pot, as if in shame. This is the first time I’ve gotten a notice of default, the first strike at losing my home to foreclosure. Seven will have to be my lucky number; it will surely require a miracle for me to make this deadline, to pull myself out of the hole I’ve been digging for months. I understand that by the law, or the Constitution, or whatever, I’m supposed to be perfectly punctual on all my taxes and mortgage payments, following the law exactly. If I’m not, I’m pounced on by a thousand brilliant tax geeks and land lords like Ralph Charsie, who love nothing more than to capitalize on my flaws and make me homeless. I’m left with two choices: lose my apartment rental and forget about any dream I’ve ever perceived, or do something that will erase my dignity and give me a new start.

I’m an Intrapersonal learner which means that I take great pleasure in being alone, entertained by watching the awkward couple across the restaurant, the business man taking the tenth phone call today, you know, the usual diverse type of cityfolk. So, as I force myself to step into my boss’s office and ask for an unimaginable amount of money, it takes a bit of a mental push.
Mrs. Annaham is uptight. I suppose that she doesn’t need to be any other way, considering her accomplishments-- writing for all the top newspapers, magazines and reviews, practically exceeding the capacity of her bank account, if that’s possible, and becoming the head editor for The Wall Street Journal. She hired me to be the main writer of obituaries, the lowest paying section to write for, and the least interesting, in my opinion. It was a fatiguing journey to apply and go through the countless intimidating interviews, but, I must have left a good statement-- I was hired.
***
I step into her office and take a seat before her, about to plead for help; a peasant before the queen’s throne.
“I have to share something very personal,” I said. “I was hoping... that... you could be of some help to me.” My voice shook. She sat up taller, looking at me over her glasses. I could hear the clock ticking on her desk.
“The truth is, I’m in debt, and soon, I will lose my apartment, therefore I won’t be able to work here much longer. I’m asking for a raise-- if you could call it that. I need three-thousand dollars in one week,” I said, relieved it was off my chest, although feeling idiotic about my desperation.
“You mean to tell me that my best obituary writer is asking for charity?” She asked, raising her penciled-in eyebrows.
“Listen, I’ve been struggling for so long and I’ve put a lot of eff--”
“Say no more,” she interrupted. She laced her hands together on top of her spotless desk. “I can replace you, but we’ll get bad reviews, and our reputation will go down. I’ll give you the three-thousand dollars by the end of the week if you write me the finest obituary ever written in this business. You must attend the funeral as usual...the information is on your desk. Do you understand?”
“Thank you, Mrs. Annaham you have no idea how much this means--”
“You may go.”

Garrison

“Put on then, as God’s chosen ones, holy and beloved, compassionate hearts, kindness, humility, meekness, and patience, bearing with one another and, if one has a complaint against another, forgiving each other; as the Lord has forgiven you, so you must also forgive. And above all these put on love, which binds everything together in perfect harmony.”

She said those words, so sweet to my ears, every morning before a new day, and every night to end another. All she wanted was my happiness, for me to forgive myself. She showed me her devotion, her promise of her forgiveness. Now I sit before her spirit. I will do the same, praying that someday, God will join us together again.
***
At homecoming, I made my first acquaintance with her. The image I held in my mind was yellowed, and torn at the edge, like the picture Donny showed me countless times in war. She was beautiful. When I looked at her, I saw Donny, and, looking back at me, she saw Donny too. We were connected, bound by this impenetrable loss. She greeted me when I stepped off the plane like I was the one she expected all along-- like everything was meant to be. Bless her soul for ever forgiving me for what I did.

Alice

This was the last place I wanted to be on a Saturday morning. Dressed in black, I feel like Johnny Cash.
Before writing my past obituaries, Mrs. Annaham always said that attending the funerals is the best way to connect and get a sense of the deceased’s personality and family life. I suppose I shouldn’t argue with that.
Today, the funeral is outside at a chilling place called The Hope Cemetery, even in the midst of February. The weather couldn’t be more depressing, which perfectly fits the occasion. I scribble down a few notes: the mood of the music, pastors, family speeches; the basics. Scriptures are read by quivering voices, about how God has taken their loved one to Heaven and has forgiven all sins-- things I’ve never understood. Why would you devote yourself to a mere idea? I smile faintly at friends and family as they peel themselves away from the rectangular hole in the packed earth, starting for my car as well, not looking forward to the long night of writing ahead of me. Trying to take note of the eerie presence in the graveyard, I look around, taking a quick sweep of the expanse, stopping when a small black figure further up on the hill disrupts the normal picture. It seems to be crouched over, in front of a gravestone. The snow, that should have been fluffy from the recent flurries, was packed down and smooth around him, telling me that he hasn’t just been there for a quick visit.

Garrison

We’d been crouched behind the dusty hillsides of Germany, taking cover, firing, taking cover, firing-- it was a tedious, grueling rhythm. Months and months of military training couldn’t stop me from making a fatal mistake. The bullet grazed his side. It was mine. I waited with him during his last breaths, seeing that Jesus took his soul where it belonged, the place where I didn’t.
***

Sharp white slits cut through my vision. Who would dare to interrupt an innocent man, praying before a gravestone? Someone is coming closer. The dry snow flattens, crunches under their shoes, louder, louder, and louder still. It stops close beside me, black leather boots. I turn and face them. They belong to a young woman, dressed in wrinkled black attire. Her eyes are sunken deep into her moon white face, hair bent awkwardly, messily at different angles. She says nothing. Her troubled face almost makes me concerned, until I spot a large notebook clenched tightly in her cloaked arms.
“What do you want from me?” I ask stiffly.
“I... I was... wondering if you needed help, if you’re cold.”
“I’m fine. Don’t you go on writing this down, I know what you all want, just another story. Curse you for bothering me-- just go back to your untroubled world. Go now, and leave me.”
I closed my eyes, submerged again in the blackness, and went back to my prayers as she stepped away.

Alice

Time moves so fast when you want it to slow. I’ve been working on the obituary for hours, word for every tiresome word, restless, without the usual free flow of thoughts. My mind always travels back to the strange encounter I had earlier, an old man, all alone, praying before a gravestone marked “Jennie Shirley-- loving wife”. He, too, was restless. It seemed as though he sat there, praying for days, a battered Bible placed before him, trying to connect with something, someone. I can’t get it out of my head. I need to go back.
Signing out of my document and closing the computer, a soft green glows in the corner of my eye. My ivy plant had sprouted a new, fuzzy leaf.

***
I pull into the cemetery parking lot, being the only soul around. It is a bitterly cold and gray day. I climb the crumbly hillside, passing many weathering angels and roses to get to the plain stone, the man sleeping before it. He has short gray hair, and a stubbly beard. His heavy clothing is wrapped tightly around him. As I draw nearer, his eyes flutter open. He quickly sat up straight and said,
“Listen, I’m not moving. I’ve been here for a long time and haven’t gotten any trouble from anyone. You aren’t getting any information, if that’s what all you lousy journalists want.”
“No, I don’t mean any harm. Please, Sir, why are you out here in the cold without any food, or family?”
He sighed and looked at me with bright, and dazzlingly warm eyes.

“I suppose you’re just a kid after all. I’m out here to be with my dear wife. I’m praying to God that he should take me to Heaven so we can be reunited once again.”
I smiled a small smile and slowly reached out my hand, “C’mon, I’ll bring you to a shelter and get you some food and a warm place to stay. You’ll get sick laying out here.”
He chuckled a hoarse chuckle. “You don’t understand. I will never see her again unless I show Him my worthiness. You see, I have a terrible sin. I am here to pray to Him and tell Him that he should forgive me, that Jennie needs to see me again. I hate myself for my sin. I don’t deserve a family or anybody-- I will never forgive myself. I can only hope that He will forgive me. ”
I knelt down beside him. “You can’t be so sure. No one in this lifetime knows with certainty of that kind of power-- after all, you and I have never seen it. How do you know he’s there?” I asked with curiosity.
“You silly child. He is here-- He is all around us. Believing is seeing.”

Garrison

She looked at me expectantly, soft eyes hidden in her face. She is wearing the same grungy clothes as the other day.
“Look around you. The wind is whispering, playing through the trees. The clouds bless us with snow in the winter, and cottony breezes in the summer. There is beauty everywhere.”
Poor girl, living her whole life filtering the facts in, throwing away every else, having nothing to believe in. I reach my hand across and place it on her knee.
“It’s never too late to start. He might help you, if you try.”

Alice

I fidget, unsettled on the ground. This thought bothered me-- I’ve never even considered relying on God to help me. How would I start? What would I say? How would He help me? I decided to go home to better filter these thoughts through my head.
“I’m sorry... uh.... I should get going.” I said quietly to him.
He made a little smile, disappointingly-- all the light escaping from his eyes. He turned back to the gravestone, and prayed.
A bit disgusted with myself, I started back down the hill, and drove home.
***
Shreds of paper litter my kitchen floor. All my life, I’ve been selfish. I have refused to believe everything I haven’t seen-- I have been miserable. I tore up the obituary, the “finest” one I was ever supposed to write, the one that was supposed to save me. It made me sick, the thought that I’ve written so many of them and haven’t felt a drop of remorse or hope that another life was possible for those who passed. I wouldn’t turn it in, it would be too painful. I placed my head in my hands for awhile, suspended in my own little world.

Garrison

May God bless her soul, and show her His light.
I prayed for her. The poor girl.
***
What a beautiful day it is, Jennie! The sky has a wash of silvery gray, the trees snake up to the clouds, like lace, snowflakes crystallizing on the rose bushes. Jennie, my time is almost up. If we don’t meet again, just know that I am alright and that I’m doing what needs to be done, to receive God’s forgiveness. Keep praying for me, and someday my sins will be amended.

Alice

A thick slice of light streaks across my face-- it’s morning and tomorrow is the deadline. I do what I’ve done every morning this week, go to the cemetery and try to find some more answers.
***
The sky is strangely beautiful this morning, yet it’s just as gray as usual. The wind has ceased and snowflakes fall hauntingly, peacefully over the stones. I see him from afar and smile. Up the hill, I stop in front of him, expecting those eyes to flutter open again. Except they don’t.
“Sir,” I say, “I’m back again to talk to you.”
I nudge his shoulder, which settles back down when I stop. I drop down to my knees, tears starting to fall.
“I’ll pray for you.” I whisper.
Right there on that cold packed earth, I joined my shaking hands together and prayed. Somewhere in my troubled body, I put the words together that needed to be released, floating out into the opened space, towards the light.

***

That night I realized my ivy plant sprouted several new leaves, rising up, lifting the drooping vines.
I wrote. Words raced out of my mind; recalling everything I remember, everything that needs to be remembered. I wrote for him. I wrote for Jennie. I wrote for God.

***

I dropped the papers on Mrs. Annaham’s desk the next morning with an overwhelming sense of confidence.
“It’s not what you wanted, but I needed to do it.” I said.
She furrowed her brows and looked at me on the verge of frustration. Her wrinkling fingers flipped through the pages, her face starting to soften after each sentence. When she was done, she quietly cleared her throat and announced,
“This could have cost you your entire career--disobeying the assignment I asked of you, going behind my back to do a different story.”
“I know,” I said, feeling shameful.

“But I want to keep you here. I want stories like these to keep coming back; passionate, about something you care for.”, “I want to give you the money. I want you to stick around,” with a smile I’ve never seen before.