Christopher Early

2-5-2018 - Christopher Early

Eight-year-old Christopher faces his terrible illness and parents who cannot deal with the awful truth. His friends, the birds, carry him away. What a child may teach adults ready and willing to learn.

Christopher Early

Christopher likes to wake up early. He presses the red button on the coffee maker so Mommy’s coffee will be ready when she gets out of bed. He goes to the cupboard and gets his favorite bowl. It has a smiley face in the bottom and ‘Christopher’ written in cursive on the side. It’s kinda crooked cause he made it himself last year in the second grade. His teacher, Mrs. Garcia, said it slipped when she fired it. Still, it’s a good bowl. He likes the way it makes him feel.

There’s a special box Mommy keeps with her sewing things just for Christopher. It has a spool of thread and a large sewing needle in it. On special early mornings, he gets it and sets it next to his bowl on the table. He climbs up on a chair and takes a box of Froot Loops from the high shelf. He puts the chair away and fills his bowl with his favorite cereal, smiling at the goofy bird on the box.

Finally, he sits down. He opens the tin sewing box and takes out the spool of thread. He rolls out a length of it, just right, then breaks it off. Christopher licks the end of the thread, twists it between his fingers, guides it carefully through the eye of the needle. He threads the needle through the holes of the Froot Loops in his bowl, then holds it up and releases them, watching them wiggle down the string. When there is only about six inches of string showing, he holds the ends together and makes a knot. He slips the circle of thread over his head and hums a little song his Daddy made for him. He repeats this procedure thirteen more times, except the new circles hold only five Froot Loops each.

Christopher carries the thirteen tiny necklaces in his cupped hands to the window of his bedroom. He sets them of the sill, then slides the window open. He arranges the necklaces in a nice neat row, then proceeds to wait for his winter friends. They always come, first one, then two, then all the rest. They hop and twist their tiny heads, wild eyes and Christopher flies.

He used to play outside. Daddy and Mommy held his hands and swung him, one two three, up in the air. Mommy pushed him in the swing and sometimes, when Daddy went, he would grip the back of Christopher’s swing and run all the way under him, flinging Christopher high into the air. Christopher begged for these ‘cannon balls’ until Mommy finally gave him and Daddy one of her ‘serious’ looks and said, “Just one!”

That’s how Christopher’s leg got broken. When Daddy went under him, Christopher felt a whoosh of air between his bottom and the swing. Then he hung there for a while, suspended in the air. Sometimes he can still feel himself there, floating, before falling to the ground. His leg was twisted and it hurt real bad so Mommy and Daddy bundled him up and rushed him to the hospital. Sure enough, his leg was broken. The doctor set it and put it in a cast but that wasn’t the worst of the problem. Christopher was a bleeder, a hemophiliac. So they kept him in the hospital for a couple of days, helping his blood and monitoring him.

No more ‘cannon balls’. A year later, when Christopher began to feel very sick, no park either. He had a big grown-up disease and people were afraid of and for him. That’s when he began to make necklaces and fly away with his new friends. Mommy and Daddy weren’t happy anymore. They wore sad smiles and talked and wept late into the night. Christopher heard them but pretended he didn’t. They took him to lots of doctors and hospitals and sometimes, when they returned home and Christopher felt a little better, it almost seemed as if they could all be happy again. Until the next time.

One morning Christopher’s legs hurt so bad he had to use the walker-thing to make it from the bedroom to the kitchen. He climbed painfully onto the chair and almost fell while getting his Froot Loops from the high shelf. He made it though. The pain tried to make him cry but he wouldn’t let it. The house was already full of tears. He started the coffee and made his necklaces. This time, only this time, he forced his stiff aching fingers to make two extra big ones. He put them in a circle around Mommy and Daddy’s coffee cups.

He put the thirteen tiny necklaces on his fingers, wearing them like happy delicious rings. He gripped the walker-thing, careful not to damage the gifts he had made for his friends. Christopher knelt on his bed, arms resting on the window sill, small hands palm up and reaching out the window. He was too tired to take the rings off but it didn’t matter. This time, only this time, his friends flew to him, their wings fluttering kisses against his face, their tiny mouths careful not to injure him as they walked his palms, then flew away with the gifts he had made. And this time, only this time, Christopher flew away with them.

Christopher’s Mommy is mad. She drives her car with tears in her eyes, her face a tortured reflection through a window of pain. There are seven directions to go, she knows, East and West, North and South, Up into the Heavens, Down into Mother Earth, finally into Self. She ignores all six of the former and swims her tears into the latter. Mommy, what’s the matter? She drives to the car park and walks in her trance to the place with the marble stone.

Out of her bag comes a crooked little bowl, a tiny tin box and a colorful carton of breakfast cereal with a cartoon caricature of a goofy bird on the front. She sets the bowl on the stone and sits herself down in the snow. Her dress is old and her legs are cold as she makes a necklace for Christopher, then one for herself. She drops hers over her head, then makes a circle around the bowl with the other. She proceeds then to make the small ones, how many, how many, she wonders. She is mad for the answer as if it might fly Christopher back into her starving arms.

Christopher’s Daddy is sad. He drives his truck with fear in his eyes. He drives North and South, East and West, but never ventures into the haunted worlds of the remaining three directions. He always finds her there, after all, at the far ends of the path of those four, physically anyway.

He tries to talk to her, to make her wear a blanket against the dark early morning chill. He loves her too much and forever and she pulls him down and down to sit next to her in the cold snow. She takes his face in her hands and asks him, “How many, how many?” He sits with her, joins the forlorn ache of her agony. They weep in their winter hearts like two mad and lost, unhappy children, beseeching the gods.

They lay down as the sun comes low and flat, out of the East, one on each side of the stone. These are the places they have made for themselves, hands reaching, fingers touching, over the mouth of the smiling bowl. The sun brings his tiny messengers, with their sweet songs of the crisp winter morning, wings smooth and fast against the silence of the dawn.

Their bodies are numb and that is good. The dumb pain of their mutual loving and hating, lost in the freezing sorrow of endless waiting. Dear god, forever is here.

Christopher likes to wake up early.
© 2018 artwork, music & words
conceived by & property of
Tom (WordWulf) Sterner 2018 ©

~Christopher Early was first published in Writers Room Magazine~

via Tom (WordWulf) Sterner – Tom WordWulf Sterner

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1-5-2018 - Abandoned Xvia ~philosophy~ – Tom (WordWulf) Sterner

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2-31-2017 - Poised Xvia ~philosophy~ – Tom (WordWulf) Sterner

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Ode to Eos

12-30-2017 - Ode to Eos T

Waking up to lavender skies,
peeling off layers of sleep.
The future comes from the east.
Dreams and schemes of deliverance
appear as opiate fantasies,
spiders crossing the web of morning,
dusty remnants of dusk.

Eos resides in our spirits,
immune to time’s messages.
Fresh breath is dawn,
whispers aweigh.
Secrets of night
lain on cloud pillow,
held high and higher yet.
Promises to self are kept.

Now lift me up
then sing to me,
voices fresh a-morning,
a cleansing solitude,
a lullaby just before
full consciousness,
eve is lost.
Behold the celebration
to which dawn aspires.

Ode to Eos was published by Aurora Review 2005
© 2017 artwork, music & words
conceived by & property of
Tom (WordWulf) Sterner 2017 ©

via Poetry – Tom (WordWulf) Sterner

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Meditation 1: Night

12-29-2017 - Night X - Meditation 1via ~philosophy~ – Tom (WordWulf) Sterner

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12-28-2017 - Lowerly X - Adagevia ~philosophy~ – Tom (WordWulf) Sterner

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The Bicycle

12-21-2017 - Bicycle T

Dear Santa,

I’m too old to be writin’ you these letters. Truth is, I’ll be 9 in a few months and I been thinkin’ for a while that you ain’t real. But just in case you are there’s this cool chopper bike at Wal~Mart I’d like to have. My l’il sister Lily wants a Cabbage Patch doll (she likes cat things too and race cars). She’s 7. My brother Louie is 6. Louie’s just about crazy for fire trucks. The smallest of the Lanes is baby Lisa. She’s 1 and a half. She likes those ol’ dolls with the blinky eyes (sometimes she pokes ‘em out).

Like I said before, if you’re too busy or you ain’t real just forget about this letter. I’m gettin’ so old it’s probly the last one you’ll get from me. Seems to me like good ‘n bad don’t have as much to do with presents as Daddy’s job. When he has work you always bring lots o’ stuff. When he don’t you don’t.

Santa he ain’t been workin’ much at all this year. His foot got hurt and he started takin’ pills then the doctor wouldn’t give him no more but it still hurt a lot. Well he started drinkin’ whiskey and beer and him and Mommy took to fightin’ all the time. She cries a lot and that makes my l’il brother and sisters cry. I try to wait and do it by myself when nobody can see me. If you pray Santa could you say one for Larry and Laurie and Lonnie (that’s me) and Lily and Louie and baby Lisa? Yeah that’s us the L Family. Kids in school use to tease me ‘bout the L’s and I’d get mad at Mommy and Daddy for namin’ the whole Family like that. Lately I been writin’ our names down in a row over ‘n over and now I think maybe it’s kinda neat that they got together and decided to have all us l’il L’s.

And that’s my real wish Santa. That Mommy ‘n Daddy’ll be like they use to. Never mind the bike and toys. Maybe if you’re real you could get together with god or somethin’ and sort o’ teach ‘em to smile again like they use to at each other and us kids. I know it sounds sappy and I use to hide my eyes when I was a kid so I didn’t have to watch ‘em makin’ eyes at each other and kissin’ ‘n stuff.

Well, I’ll let you go for now. You probly won’t hear from me no more since I’m gettin’ so old now.

Your Friend                                                                                                                                      (if you’re real or not)                                                                                                                                                  Lonnie Lane

Laurie waited until after ten o’clock like she had each Christmas for the past eight years. She went to the Children’s rooms, nibbled at the snacks and sipped the juice they left out for Santa. Her hand trembled a bit as she wrote, “Ho!  Ho!  Ho! See you next year! Be good boys and girls!” on the backside of some leftover Christmas wrap. She wiped a tear from her cheek as she picked up Lonnie’s letter to Santa and replaced it with her Santa reply. This was the thinnest Christmas ever, bare-bones and nothing left over. She’d managed to scrimp and save to buy gifts for each of the younger children but the bicycle Lonnie longed for, any bike for that matter, just plain cost too much. If only Larry could find work.

Larry had a warm fire going in the fireplace and was getting ice cubes from the fridge when she returned from visiting the Children. “Want a nightcap, Honey?”

Laurie bit her lip. “Just one and make it light. Come on in the living room and read Lonnie’s letter to Santa with me.”

Larry laughed derisively. “Isn’t he getting a little old to be writing letters to Santa? If he hopes to realize his dream to be a writer someday, just like Jack London, he’d better start writin’ somethin’ stronger ‘n letters to Santa. Not much power in Santa notes.”  He finished preparing the drinks and went to sit with Laurie on the sofa. She sobbed into her drink and handed him the letter.

He put an arm around her shoulders. “Don’t cry, Sweetheart. Next year’ll be better for us. I’ll straighten up and fly right, I promise. I don’t know what’s gotten into me.” He paused and sipped his drink. “If I could just find work.”

Laurie turned toward him, teary eyed. “Just read Lonnie’s letter, Larry.”

Larry bent forward, using the glow from the fireplace to light up his oldest Child’s words. “Ah damn me damn,” he said when he finished reading the letter. He stood up and kissed the top of Laurie’s head, “I’ll be back.”

He got up from the sofa, grabbed his coat, and headed for the door. “Please don’t go to the bar tonight,” Laurie said as the front door closed behind him. She heard his truck start, held her face in her hands and wept.

Larry drove his old Ford pickup into the parking lot of a local neighborhood bar, the Silver Dollar Bar and Grill. Other than his pickup, there was only one vehicle in the lot, a ten-year-old Cadillac Deville. He got out of his pickup and entered the back door of the bar. It was dimly lit except for the serving window to the kitchen which was just to the right of the door.

“Hello, anybody home?” Larry called back toward the kitchen.

A short Italian man stepped from the kitchen rubbing his hands together. “Larry, my friend, what brings you out on Christmas eve? Can I make you a sausage sandwich? How ‘bout a drink?”

“Merry Christmas, Papa,” Larry said. “Your boy, Michael, said he might be able to line me up with some side work, a drywall job, something like that.”

“Me and Mama, we told that boy of ours to stay home with the wife and kids. Mikey’s having us over tomorrow. How ‘bout you and the wife and all your little ones; you have big plans for the holiday?”

“Just the six of us this year,” Larry replied. He glanced toward the door. “Hey, I better get going. You have a nice Christmas. Tell Michael I’ll call or come by day after tomorrow.”

“You too, Larry. I’ll tell Mikey.” His brow wrinkled concernedly as he watched Larry walk out the door.

“Come on, Mama,” he said through the serving window. “Let’s call it a day, lock up and go home.”

Larry sat in his Ford in the parking lot, waved at his friend’s parents when they came out and climbed into the Cadillac. When they pulled out onto the street, he turned on the interior light and started to reread Lonnie’s letter to Santa.

Just as he began to read it, someone rapped on the window of his truck. Startled, Larry yelped, “What?”

Seeing a badge and police uniform, he fumbled with the window and finally managed to compose himself and roll it down. There was a female uniformed cop with a flashlight standing just outside the door. She shined the light into the cab, across the seat and dashboard, stopped and held it just above Larry’s chin. “Are you okay, sir?”

Larry folded the letter, put it back in his shirt pocket. “I’m okay. How’re you tonight?”

The cop pursed her lips. “I need to see your driver’s license, proof of insurance, and registration, please.”

Larry leaned forward to retrieve his billfold from his rear pocket. He wass fidgeting, nervous and distracted. “I was just sitting here reading a Christmas letter from my son.” He located the documentation and handed it to her.

She glanced at them under the beam of her flashlight then returned the focus of the beam to his lower face. “Sit still, sir. I’ll be right back.”

She headed back to her car. Larry glanced in the mirror. The red and blue flashing lights were all he could see. “What the hell now?” he muttered to himself.

He willed himself to relax, rested his head on the truck seat. He closed his eyes, felt himself falling, stared up into the lights of a surgery room. His leg is mangled and the pain, it is unbearable. Morphine helps. Everything is better now, isn’t it, Larry?”

“Have you been drinking tonight, Mister Lane?”

There she was with her light again. Larry, startled from his reverie, “No Sir, I mean Ma’am.”

She shined the light in his eyes and took a step back. “Step from the vehicle, please.”

Larry got out of the truck and she moved to the front of it. “Please face your vehicle. Stand with your feet apart, hands on the hood.”

Larry did as he was told and she, quick and professional, frisked him top to bottom then stepped back. “Turn around now, Mister Lane.”

Larry turned to face her, nervous and agitated, fighting to control his frustration and temper. “I just stopped by here to see a friend about some work. I haven’t been drinking or anything. I..”

She held up her hand in a signal for him to speaking. “I haven’t accused you of anything,” she said tersely. “Stand up as straight as possible and touch the tip of your nose with your right hand, sir.”

Larry was visibly upset but did as he is told.

She was watching him closely. “Drop your right arm to your side. Keep it there and touch the tip of your nose with your left hand.”

Larry touched the tip of his nose and she tok a few steps back. “Walk in a straight line toward me, one foot in front of the other. When I raise my arm, turn around and walk back to your vehicle.”

Larry walked toward her, turned around and walked back to his pickup when she raised her hand. He turned around to face her. “Well?”

She rubbed her hand on her chin. “You did okay with the nose part. You didn’t walk very straight though.”

Larry leaned against the rearview mirror of his pickup. “I had an accident at work a little over a year ago. Broke my foot and leg in a number of places. Doubt I’ll ever walk straight again.”

She nodded her head. “Will you consent to a blood or breath analyzer?”

Larry sighed defeatedly. “If that’s what I have to do. Listen lady, my oldest son wants a bike. I got fifty dollars in my pocket and I’m hoping Wal~Mart is open so I can go try to talk them out of one for fifty bucks. I’m not sure they’ll stay open all night, it being Christmas eve.”

She turned off the flashlight, slipped it into the loop on her Sam Browne. “Good luck with that.”

She approached Larry, handed him his paperwork, surprised him when she squeezed his shoulder. “Go get that bicycle, Mister Lane. And hey, Merry Christmas.”

Larry, out of sorts and befuddled, said, “Thanks and Merry Christmas to you.”

She opened the door and Larry added, “Hey, it’s been a tough year but I’m gonna get that bicycle for my boy.”

He climbed into his pickup, took out his billfold, and put the paperwork away. He pulled a fifty-dollar bill from behind a flap in the billfold, held it up and gave it a kiss. “My rat-hole.” He returned the billfold to his back jeans pocket, put the bill in his front pocket, started the pickup and pulled out onto the street.

Larry drove directly to the nearest super Wal~Mart, thankful they stayed open late. The bike rack was near the front of the store and he marched straight to it. “May I help you?” asked a blue-vested clerk.

“I hope so,” Larry replied in earnest. “My son wants one of those chopper bikes for Christmas. I probably don’t have enough money to buy it but maybe I can work out somethin’ with the manager of the store to make up the difference. I’ll shovel snow, sweep the floor, unload trucks, anything. I gotta have that bike for my boy.”

“I’m sorry, Sir,” the lady said. “Those bikes were a big hit this season. All our stores have been sold out for over two weeks.”

Larry stared at her in disbelief. Tears filled his eyes. “I told you I’d work. I’ll do anything; if you could just.”

His desperation startled the clerk. She edged away, offered him a nervous smile. “I’ll get the manager,” she said consolingly, “Maybe there’s something he can do to help you.”

Larry paced back and forth but felt relieved when the store manager appeared a few moments later. He shook Larry’s hand and gave him an appraising look. “Good evening, Sir. Liesel told me about your problem and asked me to have a word with you.”

“Liesel?” Larry mumbled, “L, L.  Liesel, L’s on both ends?”

The manager laughed heartily and Larry was taken aback at the portly man’s gaiety. He was middle-aged or older, had a full white beard and twinkling eyes and for a moment Larry thought, but no…  Stop it! Larry chastised himself, this is the real world, not some eight-year-old’s fairy tale fantasy. “Sorry for my outburst,” the jolly man said, “But your response struck me as funny. Of course, Liesel has L’s on each end of her name.”

Larry smiled a sad smile, the best he could muster under the circumstances. “Guess I got a thing for L’s.” His smile went a bit deeper, became more genuine. “Life and love, my whole Family; L’s have been kind to me.”

“My name’s Nick,” the manager said, not sure what to make of Larry’s statement. He scrutinized Larry for a short moment. “And hey, about the bicycle; I have one in back that was damaged in shipment or something. I don’t remember precisely what happened to it. There was something wrong with it that was fixable but we don’t have the resources here, time, machinery, a welder, something like that. We planned to claims it out after the holiday and take it to a recycling facility with other damaged merchandise. Mind you, if it appears beyond repair, I won’t be able to sell it to you.” Having said that, he turned on his heel and headed for the back of the store. “Come along; let’s see what we can do for you.”

Larry followed close behind, hands in the pockets of his jeans. He worried the fifty-dollar bill there, his stash, with his fingers and in his mind. What if it wasn’t enough like countless other things this past year that hadn’t been enough; like Larry himself wasn’t enough anymore, his self-esteem at an all-time low.

‘Here we go!” Nick announced while jingling through a ring of keys. He tried a couple and finally found one which unlocked a large metal door that led to a chain-link cage outside the rear of the store.

“Lot o’ stuff,” Larry commented as Nick flipped on a light. “Everything out here damaged?”

“Pretty much,” Nick replied, “Oh, there it is, over in the corner.” He started down an aisle littered with the miscellaneous debris of broken and damaged merchandise. “Wait by the door; I’ll pull ‘er out and we’ll have us a look-see.”

Nick moved some boxes, then returned up the aisle, pushing a bicycle with a fat back tire, long front end with a thin, chromed spool wheel. Just as he reached Larry the front wheel fell off. Nick shook his head. “I remember now. The front tire was flat and when Jim, our bicycle assembler, repaired it, the front axle threads were stripped.” He looked down at the bicycle, disappointment evident on his kind face. “I don’t know, Sir. It’s been sitting out here in the weather for a couple of months. Look at all that rust on the chrome.”

“I can fix it,” Larry assured him. “I could probably fix most of the things out here. I’ve worked with tools and machinery all my life, construction, roofing and stuff, done some garage door repair. Always fixed my own bikes when I was a kid.”

“Hmmm,” Nick mused, “Did Liesel mention something about you being out of work?”

“I get a side job every once in a while,” Larry replied honestly, wondering what it was about this man that made him feel so comfortable, urging him to open up. “But nothin’ steady for the past year or so.”

Nick picked up the front wheel, lifted the front end of the bicycle, and rolled it past Larry. He leaned it against the inside wall of the store, turned off the outside light, and closed the metal door. “Well Sir, don’t know if you’d be interested but Jim’s retiring at the end of the month, been with Wal~Mart for thirty-two years. You come in after Christmas, fill out the paperwork, a proper job application; might just be a job here for you. If you’re interested, I’ll leave the manager a note saying you seem like an apt young man to me.”

“Uh,” Larry began, “I thought you were the store manager.”

Nick chuckled. “Me? No, I’m Home Office/Toy Distribution, whatever you want to call it. I’m here on a tour of the stores in Colorado; just happened to answer the call when Liesel requested a manager for assistance.

Larry screwed up his courage and looked Nick straight in the eye. “I’d appreciate the recommendation. I’m definitely interested in the job. I’d be in your debt.”

Nick fiddled with his beard, obviously uncomfortable. “No one’s ever in my debt, young man.” Then the smile returned to its home on his face. “Well then,” he said brusquely, “Let’s get you back home to that boy of yours.” He appraised the bicycle doubtfully. “A lot of work there; sure you can get ‘er up to snuff?”

“That bike’ll be better ‘n new when I’m finished with it,” Larry assured him.

“I believe you and that’s good enough for me,” Nick chuckled, “We usually don’t sell damaged merchandise, liability and all that.” His eyes twinkled when he looked at Larry. “But it’s Christmas eve, isn’t it? I got me a good feeling about this.”

“Thank-you,” Larry said with relief. “Uh, how much do I owe you?”

“Let’s see here.” Nick bent to look at a tag hanging from the goose-neck of the bicycle. “Well she has a price tag for $177.00 new, hmmm.”

Larry felt a lump beginning to form in his throat. Half off the selling price would be around $90.00, a generous discount but $40.00 more than he had in his pocket, $40.00 more than he had to his name. What was he going to do now? The question spun round and round in his mind and his knees felt like jelly.

Nick squeezed his upper arm. “How ‘bout forty dollars? Does that sound fair to you? Tax will bring ‘er up to around $43.00. Can you swing it?” Larry was surprised at the strength of the older man as his hand squeezed a bit harder. “Listen Son,” he said softly, “I’ve been penniless and on the streets before in my life. I know how difficult life can be at times, how hard we can be on ourselves. Your boy’s gonna have that bike if I have to pay for it myself.”

Larry swallowed deep, then answered enthusiastically, “No Sir, you’ve done more than enough. I’ve got cash in my pocket. Let’s do it!”

“That’s the spirit!” Nick released his grip on Larry’s shoulder and gave him a bear hug. Larry couldn’t believe how good it felt and, though he’d never hugged another man, a stranger anyway, he found himself returning the embrace. Nick broke away and beamed at Larry, cheeks and ears as red as beets. “I hate to rush off but I’ve a busy night ahead of me, if you know what I mean.” He gave Larry an exaggerated wink. “I’ll tell the cashier up front to price override the damaged bicycle to $40.00. You just take it up there and hey, have a merry Christmas!”

Larry gathered up the bicycle and turned to thank the man but Nick was gone. Lonnie’s note crinkled in his pocket and Larry thought, Yeah, I’m pretty sure I know what you mean.

Larry backed his truck up to the garage and there she was, barefoot in the snow, his silly girl, his Laurie. She was wringing her hands with worry. Larry got out of the truck, picked her up and carried her into the house. She was crying and trying to speak but Larry smothered her mouth with kisses and hugged her in a slow circle through the room. He set her down on the sofa then threw another log on the fire.

“Larry, what?” Laurie’s face was flushed, deep with concern but ready to be happy. She was as beautiful as Larry had ever seen her, more so in fact. He wanted nothing more than to hold her through and until the night went away.

“What, what?” he said playfully. “I love you, that’s what! I got our Lonnie a bike, that’s what-what but it needs some work, what? I’ll be busy out in the garage for a couple, three hours gettin’ it ready.” He made that face, the sexy face he knew she loved to see. “Why don’t you just snuggle up warm and wait for me?”

Laurie leapt from the couch and hugged him ‘til it hurt. She wet the front of his shirt with her tears. Larry stroked her hair. Leonard Cohen’s ‘Take this Waltz’ came unbidden to his mind and he danced her slowly around the room. How could he have ever abandoned their romance? “Don’t cry, Baby,” he whispered into her ear. “I got the bike and well, maybe a steady job. Don’t cry, Honey. Whatcha wanna go ‘n cry for?”

“I’m scared,” Laurie’s muffled voice spoke against his chest where he held her head and refused to let go.

“Don’t be,” Larry murmured, “Everything’s gonna be alright, it really is.” “Take this waltz, take this waltz, take this waltz,” he crooned as round and round the room they danced.

“I’m happy,” Laurie sobbed, “It feels like you’re back from that awful place and I don’t ever want to lose you again. I’m happy and I’m scared; that’s why I’m crying.”

Larry led her to the couch and told her about his incredible visit to Wal~Mart, his meeting the man, Nick, and finding the damaged bicycle, how he knew he could fix it up better than new. He had some tricks up his sleeve alright, ol’ Larry, some parts from his Harley including an ooga-ooga horn he knew Lonnie loved. Laurie stopped crying and breathed a silent thank-you to her god for answering her prayers, prayers gone empty in their year of darkness. Larry pressed Lonnie’s letter into her hands. “What did I say just before I left, that Lonnie was gettin’ a little old to be writin’ letters to Santa Claus.” He choked up and turned his head when he began crying. He stood up from the couch, arms akimbo. “Enough o’ that! No more happy tears; it’s time to go to work. I won’t be long, believe me. You just wait and save me some hugs.”

“We always did it together,” Laurie said softly.

“What, Sweetheart?” Larry asked, nonplussed at Laurie’s statement.

“The toys,” Laurie replied, “Wrapping presents for everyone and putting things together.”

Larry clapped his hands, a true and genuine smile softening his young man’s tough leather face. “That’s right, girl! You’d better get some jeans and shoes on and don’t forget your coat!”

Laurie ran to the bedroom and put on her jeans and warm felt boots. She looked every bit the excited child to Larry when she bustled back into the room. “I’ll get the fire truck,” she chirped happily. “We have to put it together. And I found a few things to go with the girls’ dolls at the secondhand store, even a race car for Lily. We’ll have to clean them up a bit. Larry, I’ll make some coffee and bring everything out to the garage. We’ll do it like before.”

Larry kissed her on the mouth, long and hard, took her breath away. “Yes, we’ll do it like forever, my sweet lady.”

Laurie went to the closet, began unearthing hidden treasures. Larry got the bicycle from the truck, took it into the garage, and stoked a fire in the oil drum stove he had built a few years before. He got his tap and die set, cut new threads into the axle, and had the front wheel on in a jiffy. He reached absently into his left-hand jeans’ pocket and felt something crinkly there. When he pulled his hand out, it was holding a hundred-dollar bill. Now how did that get there? He stopped for a moment, amazed at how wonderful he felt. Hope, he thought, don’t know how or when I lost it, what with all I got to be thankful for, but I got it back. And with hope, I have faith. One more tear on the seat of Lonnie’s bicycle. He was polishing the chrome on the wheels, chasing the rust away, when Laurie came into the garage with two steaming mugs full of coffee.

“Oh Darlin’” she exclaimed, “You didn’t just get a bicycle, you got the bicycle.”


© 2017 artwork, music & words

conceived by & property of

Tom (WordWulf) Sterner 2017 ©


The Bicycle was published by 2004

via Tom (WordWulf) Sterner – Tom WordWulf Sterner

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