He awoke with a start. Disoriented, confused. Expecting Simon to step off the raft and on to the shore to continue their journey. As he lay there, the world coming into focus, the moon lighting the trees out in the yard, the dim red glow of the clock. No need to look. It would say 3:1?. 3:11, 3:17, 3:14, it did not matter. It always said 3:1?. 3:1? was his witching hour. The moment when his conscious would seize control back from the sub-conscious and which had, like the Who’s down in Whoville, holler “yalp”. "We are here. We are here. We are here." A nonsensical world that was bright, vibrant and teeming with life would be wrestled back under control. He would be left there in the dark to wonder what it meant..
He had been dreaming again; that dream. He had awoke with a start and in considerable discomfort. No wonder, because as he came too, he realized that he was clutching something tight to his chest. So tight his arm was cramping. His jaw was set. His forehead furrowed with deep rows in a mix of anger and sorrow. As he slowly eased his brow, unclenched his jaw and moved his arm he could see that he had been holding the red journal of his brother. In the light of the moon, it was its spectral gray. In a moment, with the brush against the nightstand light, the cover would turn red and inside, the random scratches would transform into the even flowing hand writing of his dying brother, set there twelve years earlier.
This was only the third viewing of this dream. He could not recall the trigger for the first two that had fired his imagination into such vivid action. Little doubt as to tonight’s catalyst though. He had been cleaning the upstairs closet; a job that had caught up to him on a list. While cleaning, he came across this sealed box of Simon’s things way in the back as if twelve years of other accumulations would shield its contents from the world, like a curtain of lead shielding all things radioactive and destructive. But there under the games, the photo albums, the box of outdated and useless electronic gadgets, two other boxes of software cds, diskettes, and disks for computers long discarded, sat Simon’s box.
A slice of a utility knife revealed, a pine wood derby trophy, a high school and college diploma, several concert ticket stubs, four yearbooks, several photo's of friends, a framed photo of Kendra, and ten diaries. They started in his senior year of high school and covered the next seven. I took them out, sorted them by date, picked up the last and started reading. I quickly found that it started in the middle of his fight. But it was late. I could find the early rounds tomorrow. Then this entry; June 28, 1998: followed up with Dr. Klein; declined elective, seems like a painful long shot. Better to enjoy what I can of time left. That time . . . three months.
DAMN HIM! There was a hope, a chance? He didn't tell me. He did not choose to fight? Did he tell anyone? The prior and subsequent entries offered no clue. Simon's death killed mom and asking dad was futile. The alsheimers had ravished all memory. An hour on the web, left five possible Kendra Millers. 1:30 am was too late to wake the four imposters. And in more rational moment, it was too late for the authentic Kendra. They had broken up their jr year at Auburn
Sleep brought the dream. Like its two siblings, Simon was standing on a raft paddling across a wide river. However, the floor of the raft was made of words. As the raft glided across, the words would scroll up. Kindergarten, school, little league, home-run, all-star, 4-h, camp, church, broken leg, first kiss, dance, football, high school, first date, first-base, all conference, second base, prom, home-run, on and on it went. This words forming rank upon rank tied together with the vines made of a host of other words. As a rank would slip into the river behind Simon, a new rank would form in front, and his long silent trip continued.
Then still a long way from shore, Simon's face changed. Worry crept in. Looking down at his feet, I saw tired, weak, couldn't, doctor, tests. As these words laid themselves at his feet, the fewer words vined around the planks. The futher he rowed the more unstable the raft became. The raft started taking on water, the words becoming more grim. Until there was only pain, and visits from friends, mom, dad, me.
Finally, the words failed him. The river took him in a long way from shore.
But the third time was a charm. Tonight was different. I could see the words reforming, Slowly, painfully at first the words came together, diagnosis, chemo, bed ridden but recovery. And then faster, bolder, more exciting, grad-school, graduation, marriage, kids life. The words forming the raft; rank after rank, bringing him closer to shore. But as it approached, the words uncoupled, spread out, started mixing with the current, jumbling, losing any focus, simply slipping away.
Kendra looked at me; reflecting my sad eyes, seeing my anxiety and struggle as I tried to keep the words together. Diagnosis, bed ridden, grad-school, marriage, kids, bed ridden, college, kids, life surgery, graduation; until I looked up in utter confusion and anguish.
“He could have chosen a different outcome?”
“No. We all die. The outcome would have been the same.”
“I know that. Sure in the end we all die, but the end could have been much delayed?”
“I doubt it. You only see it clouded through the mists of time. You forget the pain he suffered. The doctors know more now than they did at the time. Now, cures come daily that 12 years ago were miracles."
"But I saw the words reforming. The raft was reforming. His life could have gone on."
"No. Those were your words. Your words can't sustain another's story. At best you can only provide a twig or two in the vines. The story is his, and even then he places only a few planks. Most of those are ill-fitted and placed poorly. Its best when crossing the river if you just shut up and row."
3:13.
Take care
Roger
PS. This is only a work of fiction that will be used as a scene in a longer story. But is too long for this format.
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