Tuesday, November 15, 2011
For Anna
My 13-year-old niece is an incredibly gifted writer and recently entered a Harris Burdick writing contest. The story is a tribute to her grandfather (my dad) who died of cancer four years ago this February. The story must receive “hearts” to stay in the competition. I’m asking everyone who reads this to please click, join and heart her story. It will take you less than 5 minutes.
I’ve written about Anna in the past and mentioned all the ways she inspires me – but nothing could have prepared me for what this young (but obviously old) soul was about to share. Unbelievable!
Her Story: Terminal
He didn’t feel terminal.
He pulled at one of the tendrils of ivy on the wall, examining the room carefully. The only light came from the doorway he was leaning against and, oddly enough, the staircase leading to nowhere. He could see the room perfectly, with its black, carefully crafted wrought iron staircase and eerily beautiful white walls that are divided by snaking gray coils of ivy.
The room showed no hint of color, displacing his theory of liveliness through color; the still room hummed with some kind of life, though not the complex aura the human race has come to expect. The room was warm in its coldness and relaxed in its power.
Still, though, he kept his body propped against the doorway, feet barely inside the threshold. He knew that if he entered the room, he could not leave the way he came. If he moved into the room, the only way out would be up, which was not the part he was worried about; he knew he had to wait for something. So there he stood, a dark silhouette against the bright light penetrating the room, contemplating.
Two years, he’d been ill. Two agonizing years filled with worry, fright, ineptness, all caused by cancer. Just months ago, he’d been declared terminal.
He wasn’t quite sure he’d lived a full life. His first marriage brought four daughters and a divorce. He might not have been the best father he could have been, or the best grandfather, or son, or brother- do you get the picture? – But he loved them. His addictions were smoking, poker, and football; he loved the Colts, sitting on the far side of the couch and gambling. He died at just sixty-three years old.
Maybe his life wasn’t one to be very proud about, but leaning on his once shattered hip (that was now in perfect condition, he noted with glee) in this mysterious yet so familiar doorway, waiting for something he couldn’t remember, he was content. He pulled at the ivy one more time, staring at the staircase curiously.
It was beautiful. The ivy wrapping the walls continued to stretch across the floor, then twirl around the staircase railings to become a part of the twisted iron design. A part of him knew what the staircase led to, had been waiting for this time. It told him that, no matter what version of reality they were in, everybody passed through here at some point.
He’d always known about the staircase. It simply hadn’t been time yet.
Was it time now? He didn’t feel quite like it. There was a tug from the light behind him, keeping him right where he was standing, almost like dog on a leash. The dog wanted to keep with the familiarity if its owner, but it also had the urge to charge full speed ahead at this strange, exciting new world. He could charge now, with his repaired hip and youthful energy, but was he ready?
And suddenly… the owner had let go of the leash. The tug had disappeared, and he felt like he could run for miles, though he knew he only need step up the stairs and the world miles would hold no meaning, a word he could leave behind in the physical world as he entered the realm of the metaphysical, a concept so confusing to the living mind, so reassuring to the dead.
He was dead. At least, he would be when he embarked upon the journey up the staircase. His family, they didn’t want him to go, but he had their blessing, and he… he was ready.
He took a step toward the staircase.
He took a few more steps until he was well into the room, just at the base of the staircase. He was a mere few feet from his earlier resting position in that one square of light, but those feet felt like a million miles.
Looking out the door, his glance was not wistful. He looked on it with the air of fondness and remorse to be leaving that one might see on a young adult’s face as they moved out for the first time. These few steps, however, were far more permanent, monumental and crucial then such an occasion.
He looked up at the staircase that seemed to lead to nowhere, just a ceiling at the top.
“Well then,” he said to no one, “this is it, I suppose.” He looked around, as if suspecting someone heard him, or waiting for an answer, and then shook his head. This is it, it is time, and he is going to take a step up the staircase.
“I’m going somewhere better.” He promised himself. He forged ahead, taking the first step up.
He knew that, somewhere far away from him, his body had stopped functioning. His family would cry, they would have a funeral, and his body would be buried beside his mother and brother as it was left to decay under the earth; but his essence was moving on.
He walked to the top of the staircase, his firm, purposeful yet relaxed steps making no sound in the peculiar room. He looked back once, a quick glance over his shoulder, a smile, and the grin staying in place as he made the final step in his ascent to nowhere, passing through the ceiling.
“Goodbye.” He whispered to no one but himself, and he was gone.
Time is but a creation of the mind. Terminal? Nonsense. He was free.
THANK YOU for your support!
http://figment.com/books/167229-Terminal
