Jedi Knights he held in such high regard?
“When you were with her, you weren't the tornado. You were the sun rising over a misty field at dawn. Shit, the world may have fallen apart all around you but you were at peace, man.”
I wish I could believe like she did. Doesn't even have to be reincarnation. If only there really was something beyond all of this other than an eternal void. I would love to think that I'll actually see her again in some mansion in the sky with crystal walls and golden ceilings; that we will play harps and laugh and sing and all of that other happy horse shit. That I'll actually get the chance to tell her that I loved her.
“She knows.” Doc says, apparently reading my mind again. “And she's closer than you think, brother.”
He turns toward the window and is silent for a moment as he watches the trees sway in the wind.
“Storm's coming.” he finally says. “And when it does, you're going to have to make a decision. You gonna stay out in the rain? Or are you gonna come in where it's warm and dry?”
Just like Doc to pull some sort of Zen psychobabble on a dying man. Like Josie too, now that I think about it.
I start to ask Doc not to play with words, to just come out and say whatever the hell he's driving at; but as I watch, he begins fading like cigarette smoke on the wind. One moment he's there and the next he's breaking up into little tendrils that melt into obscurity the further they drift.
But I can still hear his voice, as if he were still sitting just across the way.
“I'll miss you dearly, my friend.”
And then there is only the sound of branches scratching against the roof and the whistling of the wind as it blows through cracks in the wall.
I'll miss you too, Doc. You take care of yourself out there. You stay alive, hear?
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN: JOSIE
Why do I have to see him like this? What good can I do if I can't stroke his hair and try my best to comfort him? If I can't hold his hand and mop the sweat from his brow? He's dying and all I can do is stand here and watch as the light slowly fades from his eyes.
I'd rather remember him as he was during our time at the farmhouse: that crooked little grin that would creep across his face whenever I'd speak to him, the way he would genuinely laugh at even my feeblest attempts at humor....
When we sat together at night, he'd get this distant look in his eyes as he described a place we both so desperately wanted to believe existed: a small town surrounded by walls too high for the freshies and rotters to scale, packed with cottages where smoke curled from stone chimneys and fresh water was only a hand-pump away. In the mornings, he said, you'd be able to hear babies crying for their mothers' breasts as you sat on the porch, sipping chicory root coffee and waving to the neighbors across the way. Being a vegetarian, I would fit right in seeing as how meat would be so rare of a commodity that it could be traded like gold. Instead, the garden would be our main source of nourishment and the produce would be fresh and abundant.
And then he'd tell me how what he really missed – more than television, movies, or even music – were fried green tomatoes. He'd had a little patch in his backyard during his former life and he'd describe how it had that earthy smell after a rain, how the fruit would plump up until they practically fell into his hands at the slightest touch. He'd gather the tomatoes in his hands and head to the kitchen where he'd slice them into thin circles, dredge them in flour seasoned with salt and pepper, and then savor the aroma as they sizzled in the cast iron skillet. It almost sounded like a religious experience, the way he told it; and it was little details like this that began to blossom the simple seed of physical attraction into something so much more beautiful.
At the same time Carl and I were growing so much closer, however, Sadie was in decline. It had started as nothing more than tightness in her
“When you were with her, you weren't the tornado. You were the sun rising over a misty field at dawn. Shit, the world may have fallen apart all around you but you were at peace, man.”
I wish I could believe like she did. Doesn't even have to be reincarnation. If only there really was something beyond all of this other than an eternal void. I would love to think that I'll actually see her again in some mansion in the sky with crystal walls and golden ceilings; that we will play harps and laugh and sing and all of that other happy horse shit. That I'll actually get the chance to tell her that I loved her.
“She knows.” Doc says, apparently reading my mind again. “And she's closer than you think, brother.”
He turns toward the window and is silent for a moment as he watches the trees sway in the wind.
“Storm's coming.” he finally says. “And when it does, you're going to have to make a decision. You gonna stay out in the rain? Or are you gonna come in where it's warm and dry?”
Just like Doc to pull some sort of Zen psychobabble on a dying man. Like Josie too, now that I think about it.
I start to ask Doc not to play with words, to just come out and say whatever the hell he's driving at; but as I watch, he begins fading like cigarette smoke on the wind. One moment he's there and the next he's breaking up into little tendrils that melt into obscurity the further they drift.
But I can still hear his voice, as if he were still sitting just across the way.
“I'll miss you dearly, my friend.”
And then there is only the sound of branches scratching against the roof and the whistling of the wind as it blows through cracks in the wall.
I'll miss you too, Doc. You take care of yourself out there. You stay alive, hear?
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN: JOSIE
Why do I have to see him like this? What good can I do if I can't stroke his hair and try my best to comfort him? If I can't hold his hand and mop the sweat from his brow? He's dying and all I can do is stand here and watch as the light slowly fades from his eyes.
I'd rather remember him as he was during our time at the farmhouse: that crooked little grin that would creep across his face whenever I'd speak to him, the way he would genuinely laugh at even my feeblest attempts at humor....
When we sat together at night, he'd get this distant look in his eyes as he described a place we both so desperately wanted to believe existed: a small town surrounded by walls too high for the freshies and rotters to scale, packed with cottages where smoke curled from stone chimneys and fresh water was only a hand-pump away. In the mornings, he said, you'd be able to hear babies crying for their mothers' breasts as you sat on the porch, sipping chicory root coffee and waving to the neighbors across the way. Being a vegetarian, I would fit right in seeing as how meat would be so rare of a commodity that it could be traded like gold. Instead, the garden would be our main source of nourishment and the produce would be fresh and abundant.
And then he'd tell me how what he really missed – more than television, movies, or even music – were fried green tomatoes. He'd had a little patch in his backyard during his former life and he'd describe how it had that earthy smell after a rain, how the fruit would plump up until they practically fell into his hands at the slightest touch. He'd gather the tomatoes in his hands and head to the kitchen where he'd slice them into thin circles, dredge them in flour seasoned with salt and pepper, and then savor the aroma as they sizzled in the cast iron skillet. It almost sounded like a religious experience, the way he told it; and it was little details like this that began to blossom the simple seed of physical attraction into something so much more beautiful.
At the same time Carl and I were growing so much closer, however, Sadie was in decline. It had started as nothing more than tightness in her
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