Mark is six years old. He lives on the dead end of Westmoreland Avenue down near the park. In his backyard he has a swing set which he has named Fort Kirk and from which he surveys all the life in the park. At the moment a woman is walking her dog and pushing a jogging stroller along the park road. Three geese are standing amidst the patches of melting snow near the pond. A fire engine is parked on the road to the right. Mark wishes its lights were on. He wishes that Kevin’s family hadn’t gone to Pennsylvania this weekend. And he wishes his father wasn’t so far away.
We’ve been together, dear wife, for going on sixteen years and still there are things you don’t know about me, things you ought to know about who I am. Here’s one: my great grandfather was a soldier in the Civil War. He ran away from home to join the Union because his North Carolina family was loyal to the Confederacy. This is why my family tree extends only so far as the birth of Great Grandpa John. I too am a loyal Union man. But I digress.
My great grandfather John left home in 1864 to join General Grant in his struggle against Robert E. Lee. He served through to Appomattox Court House as an aide and messenger boy. In a letter written on the day of the surrender, he claims to have stood outside the McLean house as the Confederate General went inside to surrender. That’s the letter my brother has framed over the end-table in his living room. You’ve seen it a hundred times. Next time we’re over there, read the third paragraph. You’ll see.
But there’s much of this story that can’t be confirmed by document or photograph. Some of it was told to my father by his father, while other parts I’ve heard from aunts and uncles at family reunions and funerals. But, my dear, I have to admit that some of it is conjecture at best. All of this happened a very long time ago and so I have had to stitch the cloth together in places to make it whole. This is a story, a legend really, but it’s good. And none of my lies are too far off the mark.
Continue reading ‘A Valentine’s Legend’
Jacob dances so that we won’t die. The dance is simple. A shuffle of his feet, a throw of his hand, a bobbing of his head. Jacob dances in his house while the television plays the news. He dances at breakfast after coming awake suddenly, flushed with guilt. Jacob dances to the store, dances in line at the DMV, and he dances in his therapist’s office during their sessions.
“Jacob,” she says. “Could you sit for a moment today?”
He shakes his head and wags his index finger at her as he smiles. She is a small child asking to stay up too late to watch David Letterman. No, no, no.
“Sharon, we’ve talked about this,” he says.
He shuffles back and forth, a soft shoe and his hands come together in front of him before they swing back behind and away from him. Sharon has convinced him that he shouldn’t clap during these sessions and that was something of an accomplishment. Perhaps someday, the dancing. Jacob knows better and smiles as he executes a turn.
