Monkey

A short story from Sam Neace

            When I first saw the monkey, I thought he was a creek rat.  A large lump of brown fur scampered past the hallway entrance, as I lounged on the living room recliner, sipping rum and watching the morning news.  Frightened and fascinated, I bolted from the chair and hurried down the hall, clutching an empty rum bottle by its neck like a club.  My fuzzy intruder had disappeared, perhaps hiding beneath dirty laundry, piled along the wall, or taking refuge in the cluttered closet.  I didn’t feel like sifting through all that mess.  So, I retired to the bedroom and passed out.

            A couple of nights later, as I smoked cigarettes on the porch, my cats became oddly perturbed by a disturbance within the house.  They leapt in unison onto the banister and peered through the window, with their backs arched and tails angrily whipping side to side.  A startled gasp froze in my chest, when I turned to see a monkey, perched on the coffee table, beating its fists against varnish and snarling, as it stared straight into my eyes through the window.  By the time I unlocked my petrified joints enough to stagger through the door he had already escaped back to his hidden lair.  From that moment on, those hate filled, beady, red eyes haunted my nightmares.

            My wife left a few months earlier, sending me into slight depression.  Occasionally, friends called to check on me.  I expected laughter, when I told them about the monkey.  Instead, their tone grew concerned.  They must have thought I was losing my mind.  Their haste to sell me out as a pitiful nutcase, kind of pissed me off.  Why in the world would I makeup a story about a monkey in my house?

            Calling an exterminator would have been a waste of time.  The monkey was a master of elusiveness.  I swear, had he ducked into an empty room, with no windows or closets, I still would have been unable to find him.  His purpose was to taunt me like a little demon.  Most times, I only caught glimpses of him streaking across the wall, as he raced from the recesses.  Rarely did he linger long enough for our eyes to meet.  His shrieks, however, continued all hours of day and night.  Sometimes, they came from the attic.  Usually, they echoed through every corner of the house, making it impossible to figure out where they were coming from.  The noise became such a nuisance; I needed extra nerve medication to sleep.  So help me, the crafty devil knew I was doped and seized the opportunity to wreak my home.

            One morning, I woke up on the floor.  The little bastard must have rolled me out of bed, while I was sleeping.  When I walked into the kitchen, a toppled trashcan spilled garbage across the linoleum: old coffee grinds, egg shells, and beer cans.  I didn’t have time to clean the mess before work, and when I got home, I was too exhausted.  The kitchen smelled like a dump.  Boy, did I hate that damn monkey.

            Then he resorted to crueler debauchery.  The very day I cashed my paycheck, he stole my wallet, leaving me penniless.  The phone and TV bills were past due.  Therefore, I lost service.  This stressed me to the highest degree.  Without a phone, my friends would resort to impromptu visits.  I had never been a thorough housekeeper, but with a monkey on the loose in my home, the place looked almost disturbing.  Out of shame, I kept the doors bolted and refused to answer any knocks. 

            Everyone has a breaking point.  Mine finally came when the monkey turned my alarm clock off three nights consecutively.  I got fired.  It was then that I realized the time had come to exorcise the tiny demon, destroying my home.

            Of course, it’s difficult to kill something you can’t find.  I figured rat traps would probably accomplish nothing more than snagging my foot.  The situation’s absurdity made me cry.  No one would believe me unless I could produce the monkey.  Right now, you have likely concluded that the creature is nothing more than a manifestation of my guilty subconscious.  Yet he was real, and the hardest thing to do in this world is convince people that something they cannot see, hear, taste, or touch exists and actually matters.

            So, I stood on the porch, smoking, drinking, and crying.  My cats, Murphy and Engle, came to offer consolation.  Their gentle purrs soothed my soul, as I stroked their fur.  It was then I realized that Murphy and Engle were possibly the solution to my problem.  They saw the monkey that night on the porch, when he first showed his face to me.  If granted the opportunity, they would have torn him apart.  I decided to give them their chance.

            The living room became a cats’ den; litter box in the far corner, food bowl beside my recliner.  Murphy and Engle had no complaints.  In fact, they seemed prepared for war.  I went to bed thinking, “That damn monkey doesn’t stand a chance.”

            Morning dawned and Murphy met me at the bedroom door with an exuberant meow.  He excitedly rubbed across my shins, and I thought, “Maybe he has a prize for his master.”  I didn’t see any animal corpse right away, but the house appeared to be in the same condition as it was when I went to bed.  So, I walked to the kitchen and plopped a slice of bologna on the linoleum, as reward to my valiant guard cats.  Morning java brewed, as I merrily strolled to the shower.

            Steam filled the bathroom.  God, did that hot water feel good!  There was a stench on me that so desperately needed cleansed.  I felt better.  Suds streamed across my muscles, and believe it or not, I actually thought about a woman; none in particular but just women in general.  Perhaps… maybe, I could start over and build again.  My pours opened.  Grime drizzled down the drain.  For the first time in a long, long while, I understood that everything the monkey destroyed, I could rebuild.  All it takes is determination and will power.

            My optimism, however, proved to be foolish.  For, the monkey lived, and my turmoil remained.  Drunken with false hope, I sang in the shower, oblivious to the opening door.  The monkey dragged his knuckles through residue on tile, and stood, for who knows how long, smiling at my silhouette against the shower curtain.  In the midst of vibrato, I turned, shampoo bottle microphone in hand.  As my head bobbed to the imaginary beat, colors weaved across the opaque tarp that shielded my nakedness from the outside world.  Mingling with the walls’ royal blue was a blob of brown, which could not be mistaken, even when obstructed by a slightly mildewed plastic cataract.  Upon recognizing the monkey, I flinched and stumbled backward, nearly knocking myself unconscious by butting the shower head.

            The monkey shrieked loud enough to make me squint and cover my ears.  For perhaps ten seconds, he stood still, bleating anger and pain.  Then the monkey leapt, sinking his claws into the shower curtain directly beneath the top seam.  His weight was too much for the flimsy sheet.  Slowly, his claws descended, shredding the curtain.  Blood on his hands flowed across the plastic like it was bleeding skin.  A scarlet stream swirled between my toes, as it rushed down the drain.

            Now, I could see clearly the spite in his eyes.  The monkey grunted and growled, flashing his fangs.  With all my might, I yanked the shower curtain rod off the wall and swung at his head; intent to kill.  He taunted me, smacking his palms on the floor after every failed strike.  I chased him into the hall.  He flailed chaotically, yet with form and an odd grace like a boxer.  A sharp sting buckled my right ankle.  Looking down, I noticed blood trickling from four tiny claw marks.  Although I didn’t see his jab, he obviously nailed me.  Naked and cold, intoxicated by a cocktail of emotion, I closed my eyes and swung for the rafters.  The rod’s swift cut upward caught him under the chin, and the monkey skipped tail over head across the wall.  Squealing in agony, he limped into the corner bedroom.  I sank to my knees.  Tears flowed so hard they could have washed my ankles clean.  It seemed the entire hall was covered in blood.  Some of it was mine, but most came from the monkey.  Why had his hands been so bloody when he attacked me in the bathroom?  From behind, Murphy cried a mournful meow, and I suddenly realized that Engle had yet to greet me. 

            Beams of sunshine spilled from the living room.  Dust beads danced like entranced moths, within the bars of gold, from no apparent source; waltzing as if mystically called.  I followed the levitating misty trail through the living room to the foot of my recliner.  Engle’s stiff tail and hind legs protruded from the chair’s leg-rest, which was completely clamped shut over the cat’s torso and head.   of dried blood webbed across the carpet.  I freed Engle’s cold, hard body from its snare.  Clearing empty beer bottles, plates, and straws from the floor, I sat Indian style, rocking back and forth, cradling my dead friend and sobbing.

            Now, I stare into my filthy bathroom mirror.  It has been three months since the monkey killed Engle.  They will evict me from the house tomorrow.  Staring at my reflection, it is obvious what has occurred.  My eyes are crimson.  Teeth, chipped and yellow, spread into an evil grin.  Hair sprouts from my neck and shoulders.  My posture has slumped to the point where my knuckles nearly drag the floor.  Either the creature in this house was a wicked spirit, now inhabiting my soul, or the scratches on my ankles harbored some freakish infection.  Regardless of the reason, I have mutated into what I most feared.  So, I will trade this pen and paper for a razorblade.  The end of this story shall also be the end of me.  When they discover my corpse at dawn, with veins emptied from gashes just below an opposable thumb, my appearance will prove that, for one dark witching season, these humble walls served as sanctuary for a monkey.                 

                   

                               

Leah’s Big Red Balloon

A short story from Sam Neace

            Leah always thought no one understood her.  When her son was born, she realized what being misunderstood truly meant.  Caleb’s mother knew him better than anyone.  Yet she did not know him at all.  Late into the night, his tank running on empty but refusing to shutdown, he clutched the tattered teddy bear momma named “Grizzly”, gazing oval-eyed into the dimensions of his favorite cartoons.  Leah cried.  She loved him, but she cried.

            Every morning opened to the same songs on the computer; same cereal for breakfast.  Leah told Sheila not to slurp the milk remaining in her bowl, once the Apple Jacks were devoured, and ordered Caleb to stop punching his sister, when she ignored momma and slurped anyway.  Momma said many things and wondered if they heard her at all. 

            Men came and went.  All of them wanted a good time but none of them wanted Caleb, including his father, so to Hell with them.  Leah was lonely.

            The school system showed little care.  Caleb did well on his end of the year tests, so April was full of praise and candy.  The other eight months of the school year brought scorn, seclusion, and as often as possible, suspension.  Leah’s boss didn’t understand the need to take off work so often.  Every day, she feared a firing.

            Somehow, Leah kept everything together for the kids and herself.  Although stress became a regular overnight guest, life ultimately remained happy.  She enjoyed little moments with her children.  After they were tucked into bed, night mellowed with red wine, soft music, a bubble bath, and memories of simpler times, when life was carefree and Leah loved like only a young girl can.

            His name was Jeff; her high school sweetheart.  The yearbook aged considerably since graduation, but Jeff still looked the same.  Wavy blond hair, bright blue eyes, and strong shoulders called to her from his picture, as Jeff smiled like an eighteen year old kid, filled with hopes and dreams, oblivious to the reality that he had little more than a year left to live.

            Jeff and Leah built magical memories by doing a whole lot of nothing.  They talked, cruised around, and often made love.  No official proposal had been offered, yet everyone assumed marriage to be inevitable, once Jeff returned from war.  However, death is the only true inevitability.  It came for Jeff on the battlefield.  Leah watched his coffin lower into the ground.  Not long after Jeff’s funeral, she moved to Kentucky, never again to know a happy heart, until the day Caleb was born.

            At times, it seemed all the stress, loneliness, and self-doubt was driving her crazy.  The woman could cry for hours over nothing.  Every second of every day, exhaustion whittled her bones, yet she tossed and turned, unable to sleep through the night.  Leah suffered from what she believed to be hallucinations.  On occasion, her cell phone rang at a ridiculous hour, revealing the words “Unknown Location” on the caller I.D.  When she answered, a voice, sounding faintly like Jeff, called out to her.  Intense static, so loud and chaotic it hurt her ears, stifled the man’s words.  All she could make out was her name, shouted with great strain and distress, as if the man knew he had to overcome deafening interference.  These calls came randomly, but always while she slept.  Sometimes, she pressed the talk button but did not say hello.  Instead, she simply listened as the man struggled to slip a slight fragment of his message past the static roar.  “Leah,” he would say, followed by nothing but mumbles that might was well have been spoken in a foreign language.  Then there were nights when she tried communicating with the man, asking him to press buttons on the phone, if he could hear her, or perhaps send his message to her as a text.  The end result never varied, regardless of Leah’s efforts.  Just when she began convincing herself that the calls were stress induced hallucinations, the cell phone rang, during a morning when Caleb was in bed with her.

            Usually, ring number-one coaxed her awake but not alert.  She accompanied the second ring with an angry groan.  Finally, the third ring lifted her heavy head from the pillow.  On that morning, ring one did its job, but numbers two and three never came.  So, she briefly drifted back to sleep, until the realization hit her like a bucket of ice water.  “Caleb!”

           She quickly turned to find Caleb holding the phone to his ear.  Instead of confused or agitated, he appeared intrigued, gently chewing the corner of his lip, with eyes never blinking. 

“Caleb, give it to me,” she snapped, yanking the phone from his hand, which led to a terrible fit that lasted all day.  “Unknown Location” flashed on the screen, but the caller had already disconnected.  Leah tried convincing Caleb to somehow demonstrate what he heard, but her efforts were useless.  Momma would have given anything for the ability to communicate with her son.

            Leah devoted little thought to her mental state.  Truthfully, she didn’t have time to be crazy, and she certainly did not make enough money for therapy.  So, life ventured along merrily.  Bills piled up each month, as the children grew.  Caleb had good moments and bad moments.  He seemed to gradually get better, although Leah wondered if his condition was really improving or if she had just adapted to it.  Friends, doctors, and a few caring teachers credited Leah’s love and devotion as the major factor behind Caleb’s development.  But whatever the reason, there weren’t as many big hurdles to jump over on a weekly basis.  Caleb learned to write numbers.  Trips to the grocery store actually became pleasant.  He even allowed grandma to take him to the carnival.  Rather than freaking out or fighting with Sheila, he shared a “normal” evening with his family, capped off by the purchase of a huge, red balloon to take home for momma.

            “Lord have mercy,” Leah laughed, as the balloon squeezed tightly through the front door, “what in the world am I gonna do with that thing?”

            She stuffed the boulder of a balloon into her bedroom.  Throughout the evening, momma was nothing but smiles, and Caleb loved every second of it.  The thought of pleasing his mother caused him to beam with pride.  Of course, no job is ever finished with Caleb.  He sneaked in the bedroom, while momma was on the phone, and stood there contemplating ways he could make his gift better.  Since he had been a good boy all day, momma allowed him to sleep with her.  He crept from bed in the middle of the night, clutching a black marker, and excitedly “improved” momma’s present.  After hours of quiet labor, he returned beneath the blankets and lay awake, anxiously awaiting sunrise.

            The following morning, Leah’s eyes opened, and immediately she recognized her son’s work.  Numbers were written across the balloon’s circumference, like a ring circling Saturn.  Caleb left out some of the numbers.  Those he remembered were not in order.  Still, Leah was happy to see him showing progress.  In two spots along the circle, Caleb separated numbers by drawing a lady bug.  He loved art.  On top of the balloon, he doodled what Leah concluded to be a picture of her.  Crudely sketched dinosaurs joined momma above the equator.  Down south were several tracings of Caleb’s hand, along with a cluster of scraggly lines she could not decipher.  After carefully examining every marker stroke of his masterpiece, Leah turned and looked at him with an arched brow, which scared Caleb because she only did that when she was mad.  Her angry brow abruptly submitted to joyful giggles, as she jumped onto the bed and showered him with kisses.

            “You did that for me didn’t you?” she cheered, “I love it.  I bet you stayed awake all night too, just so you could see my reaction.  Well, you better not be an old, grumpy head today.  Come on; I’ll get you some breakfast.”

            Typically, Caleb’s behavior was out of control, when he hadn’t slept.  That day, however, there were no outbursts or tantrums.  All went well.  The kids clocked out early, freeing Leah to enjoy a hot bath.  While soaking, she saw the balloon’s reflection in her bathroom mirror.  What a perfect gift!  It resembled a heart, the symbol of love.  If a heart were to be created, representing Leah’s love for her family, it would have to be at least as big as that red balloon.  Steamy water, and the silky texture of lather streaming through Leah’s hair, created a sensation of euphoria, which she knew needed to be savored because it never lasts.  Bliss can be shattered by a simple phone call.  

            About two-thirty the next night, Leah’s ringtone fired.  Not even cellular technology could pinpoint the whereabouts of her caller’s “Unknown Location”.  She answered on the third ring.  Like so many times before, a man, sounding far away, shouted her name and then barked a paragraph of mumbles, drowned by the rushing tide of static.

            “Goodnight, my friend,” she sighed, ending the call.

            From the doorway, Caleb burst into sobs.  He stood there, trembling, with his chin and nose pressed firmly into the back of Grizzly’s head, indicating trouble or fear.

            “Caleb, how long have you been standing there?”

            Suddenly, he hurled Grizzly across the room with force violent enough to kill a bystander, had the teddy bear been a baseball.  Caleb’s jaw waged as he wept, giving his mouth a disfigured appearance.  All the warning signs of a temper meltdown registered loud and clear with Leah. 

            “Caleb, baby, tell mommy what’s wrong.”

            He screamed like a boy would after breaking a leg.  Leah rushed to his side in panic. 

“Caleb, why are you screaming?” 

As she opened her arms to embrace him, Caleb rigorously slapped at her right hand, trying to draw her attention to the cell phone.

            “Did you want to talk on the phone?” she stammered, “It was a wrong number or prankster.  I don’t know, but the caller hung up.”

            Caleb plucked the phone from her hand and launched it toward the red balloon so hard she heard his shoulder pop in mid-motion.  He might have possessed strength, but Caleb lacked precision.  Leah’s phone missed the balloon altogether and came to a shattering halt against the mirror.  Now, Sheila was awake and also crying in momma’s bedroom.

            “Sheila, go back to your room and close the door.  Caleb is upset, but mommy will take care of him, okay?”

            Sheila lingered in the doorway, but momma didn’t notice.  She was too busy wrestling big brother.  Caleb’s arms propelled wildly, as tears literally projected from his eyes.  He smacked Leah strong enough to sting her cheek.  That’s when momma tackled him around the shoulders, sending both of them tumbling to the carpet.  Leah’s knee throbbed.  Caleb laid there in shock, gazing around the room like someone freshly awakened from a dream.  Screams retreated to whimpers.  Leah now cried louder than her son.

            “What’s wrong, Caleb?” she moaned, “I wish you could tell me.  I wish I could understand.  Why can’t I understand my son?”

            Despite squinting eyelids, Leah’s tears flowed.  Soft, tiny fingers lovingly brushed her cheek dry.  She opened her eyes to see Caleb, completely subdued, lying beside her.  Red receded from his cheeks.  Peaceful and inquisitive, his expression reminded her of when he was a newborn.  During that moment of calm after the storm, a miracle occurred.  The stress and sadness, which seconds earlier nearly suffocated the tiny family, melted with the sound of one word from Caleb.

            “Momma.”

            Leah sprang from lying to sitting position instantly.  Her mouth dangled open in shock.  Tears fell, this time trickling from smiling eyes.

            “Caleb, you talked,” she gasped, “Oh my god, you talked.  Did you hear that, Sheila?  He said, momma.”

            Sheila giggled and applauded her big brother.  In less time than it takes the average person to tie a pair of shoes, the home’s atmosphere shifted from scream filled panic to heartwarming laughter.

            “Will you say it again?” Leah begged.

            “Momma,” he playfully shouted, pointing to the big red balloon.

            “You’re right,” Leah cheered, “that’s momma’s balloon.”

            Such a milestone cannot be fully appreciated by parents, whose children begin talking while they are babies.  At age seven, Caleb had yet to speak a single word.  The best diagnosis doctors and therapists offered was that Caleb might talk eventually or he might not.  Leah couldn’t have been more proud had he graduated valedictorian of Harvard.  Caleb flashed the kind of smile that made momma forget he nearly unhinged her jaw a couple of minutes earlier.  Dancing, clapping, and hamming it up for his audience, Caleb shimmied over to the balloon and gave it a firm poke in the belly.  Leah laughed and watched the balloon slowly spin on its axis.  Three black numbers (761) passed like an advertisement, followed by a tiny lady bug doodle.  The balloon twirled to reveal another set of three numbers (555), trailed closely by the second bug.  Four digits (8646) made up the last pattern, with no spotted lady marking their rear.  It seemed almost as if Caleb calculated the circle of numbers to represent some kind of code; three numbers then a dash; three numbers then a dash; four numbers to close the sequence… three dash, three dash, four… 761-555-8646.

            “Oh my god,” Leah squeaked, “that looks like a phone number.”

            By now, the curtain closed on Caleb’s performance.  He was lost in cosmic wonder, entranced by the rotating, red ball.  Leah cautiously approached and held her hand out before his mystified eyes.

            “Caleb,” she called, snapping his concentration away from the balloon, “can you see the numbers you wrote for mommy?  Do these numbers mean anything?”

            He scratched his scalp and stared at her for a moment with the expression of a child ciphering math in his head.  Calmly, Caleb pointed toward the broken mirror, where fragments of Leah’s phone mingled with shards of glass.  Momma and son gazed into each others eyes, neither knowing if the other understood.  Continuing to point toward the fallen phone, Caleb whispered, “momma”.  For the remainder of the night, Sheila slept.  After cleaning up the dangerous mess her son created, Leah dozed off and on, watching television in the living room recliner.  Caleb occupied the hours by poking momma’s balloon and marveling as it twirled.

            After breakfast, Leah searched the internet for a name and address, corresponding with Caleb’s numbers.  She did not find an exact listing.  However, a section of Michigan operated under the (761) area code.  Could dialing 761-555-8646 connect Leah with an honest to goodness residence?  There was only one way to find out.

             Leah dialed the digits, and sure enough, there was ringing on the other side.  Disappointment washed over her, however, when the rings were interrupted by high-pitched squeals, coming from a fax-machine modem.  She squinted, as the mechanical shrieks shifted along every sour note on the musical scale.  “Ah, well,” she thought, “at least I tried.”

            For fun, she slipped a cover sheet from the computer-nook’s cubby.  The heading looked very professional, with her name, address, and phone number printed in bold font.  Below the heading, she printed an unprofessional message in playful cursive… “Hi,” she wrote, with a heart serving as dot for the “i”.  Leah placed the cover sheet in her fax-machine, dialed Caleb’s mystery number, and sent it off to Santa Clause, Elvis, The Boogie Man, or just whoever waited at the other end of the line. 

            About a week later, she received an envelope in the mail from Wiley Springs Psychiatric Care Center in Detroit, Michigan.  The envelope contained two letters.  One had been typed by a doctor at the center. 

Dear Ms. Leah Combs,

            Our office recently received a fax from you.  At first, we thought it to be a cruel hoax, but after review into the address and phone number on the fax-sheet, we conclude that Leah Combs is indeed your real name.  We can only speculate as to why you sent such a vague message to our office.  However, there is a patient at this center by the name of Marcy Cantrell, who has mentioned Leah Combs to our staff with grievous sentiments on numerous occasions.  If you are familiar with Marcy Cantrell or her late son, Jeffrey Cantrell, you should know that Marcy has suffered at great lengths, since her son’s untimely death in battle, serving our country.  Unfortunately, the mental turmoil, brought on by Jeffrey’s passing, developed into a state, which now requires our services. 

            Mrs. Cantrell claims that you were her son’s girlfriend at his time of death.  She has a letter he wrote in the days prior to his departure for war.  This letter was written to his girlfriend, with a promise from Marcy that, should he die in battle, she would deliver it immediately.  The shock of Jeffrey’s death placed Marcy in an altered state of reality, in which she refused to part with any of his belongings.  Therefore, instead of delivering the letter to you, she ignored her promise to Jeffrey and clung to it.  A copy of Jeffrey’s letter is enclosed in this envelope.

            If you are not familiar with Marcy Cantrell or Jeffrey Cantrell, we extend our sincerest apologies.  Please, discard these letters and, out of respect for our patient, refrain from contacting our office.  However, should you be the appropriate Leah Combs, we feel it would be beneficial to Marcy if you contacted her to confirm that you read her son’s final words.

Sincerely,

Dr. Bon Hetfield

            Leah stood without breathing or blinking for a long time.  Shock numbed her emotions.  Even so, a slight twinge of fear slithered into her gut, and she stashed the envelope on her computer-desk, refusing to remove the second letter.

            Finally, equilibrium returned to her conscience and curiosity overpowered fear.  Leah dug into the manila envelope and pulled out the Xeroxed letter.  Right away, she recognized Jeff’s handwriting.

Dear Leah Pet,

            I just now woke up from a bad dream.  If I don’t go ahead and write this down, I might forget it.  So, I’m halfway asleep, shivering at my desk in my underwear.  Hopefully, this will make sense.

            In the dream, I was on a battlefield.  Soldiers from every country around the world were killing each other.  All of them were screaming; some in pain, some in anger, some in fear.  But they all spoke different languages, so nobody understood the others’ words.  Since everything was in gibberish, the screaming didn’t have any form to it.  It just sounded like a bunch of static.  This chaos was so loud.  I had to cover my ears to keep my head from exploding.  For some reason, I wasn’t screaming or fighting.  Instead, I just stood there, watching everything in disbelief.  But then, from far, far away, I heard your voice.  You called my name then said I love you.  As soon as those words were spoken, the static stopped, and all of the soldiers peacefully turned to look toward the horizon.  That’s when I woke up.

            If you’re reading this letter, that means I’m dead.  Jesus, Leah, I don’t know how to say I’m sorry for something like this.  But I want you to know that I love you and I tried as hard as I could to make it back home.  You are a beautiful, young woman, with her whole life ahead of her.  You’ve got to move on; chase your dreams, fall in love, build a life.  This world is full of static.  It’s hard to understand the meaning of it all.  But I think the answer is love.  When the one you love calls out your name, that’s when you realize what you’re fighting for.  May life bring you blessings.

With love and regret,

Jeff

            Leah cried so hard it hurt.  For the remainder of the day, she spoke barely a word to anyone, including her children.  Later that night, with sorrow slightly fading, but still unable to sleep, Leah arose from bed, intending to sooth her spirits by watching late night comedies on television.  First, she checked on the little angels.  As usual, Sheila sprawled out with her head at the foot of the bed and her feet on the pillow.  Surprisingly, Caleb sat fully awake, with the light off, at the center of his mattress.  He held the expression of someone moderately concerned or perhaps suffering with a nagging headache.

            “Caleb,” she called.  He turned to look at her.

            “I love you,” she gently declared.

            Caleb’s troubled features transformed into bliss.  His lips and eyes smiled.

            “Momma,” he sighed.

            Leah tucked her son into bed, and he fell asleep almost instantly.  While the moon slowly drifted by, Leah lounged in the recliner with three thoughts on her mind.  She wondered what would be the right words to say to Marcy.  Then Leah thought about how much she would miss her impromptu phone calls form an “Unknown Location”.  She was quite certain that her fallen soldier’s mission had, at long last, been accomplished.

            “Goodbye, Jeff,” she whispered.

            Finally, Leah focused on her children.  They brought such joy and meaning to her life.  She loved them with a heart larger than any red balloon.  Why God chose her for the task of raising Sheila and Caleb remained a question.  However, Leah thanked her lucky stars for being chosen.