《For It Is Not The Same River》


 The Narrators Thoughts On Deserved Endings

    The Narrator And His Thoughts On Deserved Endings


    I don''t know if I can do his story justice. How can I sum up multiple lifetimes worth of misery in one book? The truth is, I can''t. I''m not that good of a writer, nor did I experience any of it for myself. I never experienced those years of abuse and mental torture. I lived a privileged life only marred by my poor health. So, I''m not going to even try to write from his point of view, I''d only mess it up.


    He loved to talk, and he must have thought I was a good person to talk to. I never had much to say, I was content to listen. Even in my youth, I was never much of a talker. I was a writer, though not a very good one.


    My only time seeing him in person was when I was admitted to the hospital.


    When I first entered the psych ward, I was immediately accosted by him.


    His eyes were wide and manic, he looked like he was always a breath away from breaking out into a sprint and running away. He had a scratch on his face, it looked like it had been done with fingernails. It had scabbed up and you could tell that it would leave a scar.


    "What are you in for?" he asked me as if we were in a prison. In some ways, we were. We couldn''t leave, we were monitored at all times, and had to wear shitty paper clothing. Not to mention the strip search that took place beforehand where the nurses diligently marked down any scars I had before entering. Luckily, they let me keep my underwear on, I don''t think I could have handled that indignity.


    I was so shocked at the sudden interrogation that I didn''t answer right away.


    "So, what are you in for?" he asked again. He stuck his arm out, showing off the myriad of scars that lined his forearm. There were more scars than unblemished skin.


    He peered down at my arm and grabbed it, inspecting the scars on my arm. There were considerably less scars than he had. I guess you could say I was a novice in a subject no one should become an expert in.


    We started talking about why we were here. I kept it short and sweet.


    "I¡¯d like to keep that private." I''d told him, not meeting his gaze.


    "It¡¯s okay, you don¡¯t need to tell me." he''d responded. I later learned that he took it upon herself to greet every new visitor, as she''d been there the longest. He''d show them the ropes and help them get situated. As this wasn''t his first time, he knew the nurses by their first names and could walk around blindfolded.


    Most people would have opened up and talked more. Talked about why there were there and all that jazz. Not me, I already told you that I wasn''t a good speaker.


    So, he talked to me. It was like talking to a brick wall that frowned and nodded.


    I listened to his story from start to finish.


    I imagined I was a ghost observing her life up until he got to the hospital, and I met him in person.


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    He''d tried to kill himself three times.


    That''s right, three. Each time he''d take more and more pills, to the point he had seizures and passed out. But each time the doctors would bring him back from the brink of death. He hated doctors.


    You could say he had a guardian angel watching over him. I''ve always thought he had a demon on his shoulder, making him suffer with no freedom in sight.


    We kept in touch through text for a few months. We didn¡¯t talk much -about once a week- but it was nice to talk to someone.


    We both got into college. USF was the school of his dreams; USF was the only school I managed to get a scholarship for. We decided to share a dorm because neither of us knew anyone else.


    He became my roommate and best friend. I majored in English because I wanted to become a writer. He majored in Mechanical Engineering because he was a genius who wanted to change the world. He could have done it too. He was just that smart.


    We both went to therapy regularly. I got better and stopped being haunted by the ghosts of my past. My scars became faded and so did my memories. I wasn¡¯t perfect, but I was doing alright.


    He never got any better, he got worse. 1 year, 9 months, and 19 days after we first met, we talked for the last time.


    It wasn¡¯t anything deep or meaningful. I was complaining about an exam coming up in a few days that I¡¯d completely forgotten about.


    1 year, 9 months, and 20 days after we first met., I was in the USF library trying to study for a test.


    1 year, 9 months, and 20 days after we met, he jumped off the skyway bridge.


    There wasn¡¯t a reading of a will, there wasn¡¯t a funeral. His mom didn¡¯t really care about him at all.


    Maybe his life would have been better had those around him been more empathetic. There were people who tried to help, but they didn¡¯t know everything that was going on with him, they only knew a few little snippets.


    This story will be written from the perspectives of an outsider. We are all outsiders to the struggles of others. Some scenes will be from the perspective of someone I interviewed, some will be from my perspective, and some will be from slightly¡­ stranger perspectives.


    I was originally going to change the ending; I was going to change his ending. It wouldn¡¯t have been a rags-to-riches story- more of a rags-to-middle class story- but it still would have been happy.


    You, dear reader, deserve a happy ending.


    However, why should I change his story? Did God change his story for the better?


    John didn¡¯t have a happy ending, so why should you? Why have you done to deserve a happy ending?


    Why didn¡¯t he deserve a happy ending?


    ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


    This story begins in an unconventional way.


    It doesn''t begin with the beginning of life or in the middle.


    It doesn¡¯t even begin chronologically from the past to the present. There is no clear beginning or middle. There is, however, a clear end. His end.


    There will be many tangents, many what ifs, and many moments of self-incrimination. I¡¯ll be a fly on the wall, a ghost in the machine.


    I will -we will- be witnesses to his life.


    Like all the best stories, this one begins at the end. Or rather, his third near end.

 Tom With His Paper Crown Shall Rule The School

    <div>


    Dear Reader,


    There¡¯s electricity in the air. Not the romantic kind, but the lightning kind. Illuminating the backdrop of this gray room and casting shadows on the wall. The unknown become creatures of the night, eager to sup upon my unaware body.


    I¡¯d never been a fan of lightning. I¡¯ve always imagined it as gods battling in the sky. Zeus and Poseidon letting themselves be known through rain and lightning. Trying to reach Hades in the underworld. We humans are just collateral. Like ants, not worth their time. When the elephants fight, the grass gets trampled on.


    I¡¯ve never liked that feeling of helplessness. I don¡¯t think anyone likes that feeling unless it¡¯s some weird kink. To each their own, I guess. One of my defining traits is my unwillingness to follow without question.


    A loud rumble interrupts my train of thought. The sound like the guttural moan of the earth taking its last heaving breath jars me. It¡¯s a haunting sound, the rumble a call for action. For salvation.


    I follow the rule of self-preservation. Some call it heartless, I call it survival. Stay in your lane and don¡¯t try to help. It¡¯ll only cause trouble.


    I think it¡¯s a product of anxiety. Maybe that¡¯s why I don¡¯t have friends. I don¡¯t know. Maybe I¡¯m just grasping at straws.


    I mean, I do have a lot of acquaintances. I¡¯d consider myself an extrovert. But I don¡¯t have true friends. People who I¡¯d hang out with and talk about personal things. They were mostly superficial friends who would talk about superficial topics with superficial smiles and superficial promises of maybe hanging out outside of school sometime. But they always have work when you ask, and they never ask. They give superficial pity that wasn¡¯t asked for, and superficial beliefs that they didn¡¯t truly stand for, and superficial relationships that they never truly cared for. Dangling conversations that they never truly grabbed for. They made superficial attempts to pretend that they¡¯d tried. With superficial words and superficial lies.


    I¡¯m a joker, a comedian. I make people laugh. That¡¯s it. That¡¯s all I¡¯m good for.


    -Superficial promises and superficial rules,


    A Fool


    <div>


    Dear Reader,


    It¡¯s summertime. The birds are chirping, their never-ending incessant sound that ruptures eardrums. It''s so hot that skin melts, witches die from the sweat of labor and fish caught on the line are already cooked. The skin of my Irish ancestors turns red in hue, while my hair luckily remains brown.


    It¡¯s nighttime currently. I¡¯m writing by the sliver of light the moon reflects into my room. My desk is old and marked up, a cheap thing that somehow managed to last for decades.


    In the drawer is the customary bible every hotel in the US seems to have. It¡¯s just as old as the desk, maybe even older.


    I¡¯ve read it front to back countless times now. I¡¯ve heard it provides some people comfort to read it. Good for them, but it¡¯s never done that for me. It just makes me feel like there¡¯s something missing. Like there is something wrong with me. Like I¡¯m a sinner.


    But I¡¯m not. I¡¯m devout, I try my best. I go to church every weekend; I pray every night. I do everything I¡¯m told, yet I still don¡¯t feel at peace.


    I drink the blood our savior bleeds. I peruse the holy book and read. I help others and do good deeds. Yet still I feel it¡¯s not enough. That nothing I ever do will be enough. That I¡¯ll never be enough.


    The moonlight highlights the worn pages of the bible. I¡¯ve read the passages repeatedly, seeking to understand. Yet the words seem to blur together, their meaning slipping through my grasp like sand.


    The chain of faith in my family has remained unbroken for generations, yet I seem to be the weak link that will break it. The chains are like a connection to my family, yet they bind me with the pressure to conform. The pressure to believe, that I try so very hard to do.


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    I¡¯m wrapped in the chains that I cannot escape. I¡¯m not sure if I even want to. Maybe it¡¯s my penance. The punishment for whatever I must have done in a past life. The sins I must have committed to feel this way. To feel so wrong.


    Rather than a warm embrace that strengthens the faith of many, my embrace is cold and metallic, leaving marks upon my body.


    It¡¯s just as well since I¡¯m not deserving of love or hope or faith or kindness.


    -I¡¯m just a loser, a miser, a tool


    A Fool


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    <div>


    Dear reader,


    I was only eight at the time. My best friend had just turned nine.


    I was sitting in the back of class with my head down because I¡¯d already finished the work we were assigned. The teacher told all of us that we would be going out to gym soon, so everyone was gathering with their friends to plan their adventures. I didn¡¯t know anyone very well, so I just watched everyone and kept to myself.


    Before everyone left, I saw feet enter my field of view. I looked up to see a kid I recognized but didn¡¯t know the name of. He had a paper crown on his head, a gift from the teacher. It was his birthday today, yet he didn¡¯t go out to play with any of his friends.


    Looking back on that day, I realized it was because he didn¡¯t have any. He was as lonely as I was, even more so since it was his birthday.


    He was shorter than me by an inch or two, with pale skin and a thin frame. His hair was brown, and his eyes were a bright green.


    ¡°You wanna go play basketball?¡± he¡¯d asked me.


    He had a grin on his face, but I could see his leg was taping a mile a minute. I was 99% certain it was prank and he¡¯d just laugh at me like the other kids had done. But there was a reason they kept on doing it. I always held out hope that this time it was the 1% that I¡¯d always dreamed about.


    ¡°Sure,¡± I¡¯d replied, flinching as I awaited the mockery that was sure to come.


    But none came.


    ¡°Great!¡± he¡¯d said with smile. He¡¯d grabbed my hand and led me outside. We played basketball for the rest of recess, and he sat at the chair next to me when we went back to class. Later that day I learned his name was Tom.


    From then on out, we were inseparable. We¡¯d hang out every afternoon and every weekend. We were thick as thieves. I was so happy to have someone to talk to that I never questioned why he¡¯d decided to choose me out of all people to hang out with. I didn¡¯t want to look a gift horse in the mouth.


    We got up to the standard mischief that kids our age did. I was always hesitant, being a strict rule follower, but he always managed to convince me to live a little. He never seemed to sweat the small stuff, unlike me. It was both an endearing and frustrating trait, but I couldn¡¯t help but admire how free he was. I was almost jealous in a way. I wished I had that lust for life that he seemed to exude with each breath.


    He was a smart kid, much smarter than I ever was or will ever be. He was top of our class and always ready to help me when I struggled with the homework. He was also an amazing athlete. He always beat me at basketball, at least at the beginning. Near the end of the year, I started to get win more often and would rub it in his face. He took great pride in his skills and didn¡¯t like that I was teasing him about me winning. Being the snot-nosed brat I was, I started to do it more often. I thought I was getting better at basketball but looking back I don¡¯t think that was the case. I still regret teasing him like that. But he was better than me in every way and I was happy to have finally surpassed him in one aspect. I was so focused on the fact that we were friends, I overlooked everything else.


    I never questioned why he couldn¡¯t play on Monday¡¯s.


    I never noticed how his skin got paler and paler every month.


    I never noticed that he¡¯d become quiet when I talked about my dreams for the future.


    Then one day, he didn¡¯t come to school. I figured he¡¯d must have decided to skip the day or something. After all, it was his birthday and every kid dreams of not going to school on their birthday. I¡¯d given him a new videogame that prior weekend, so he was probably just playing with that.


    I started to get worried when he wasn¡¯t there the next day either, so I went to his house to check on him and see if he wanted to play. Maybe he¡¯d just lost track of time or had a busy day the day before and wanted to sleep in.


    When the door opened, I was surprised to see his mom instead of John. She worked at the nearby hospital as a doctor, so she usually didn¡¯t get home till late.


    ¡°Is Tom here...¡± I¡¯d started to ask before trailing off. Her eyes were red and puffy as if she¡¯d been crying. Even to this day I can remember the sorrow in her face. I knew something was wrong.


    They moved away within the month. They told my parents that they couldn¡¯t live with all the reminders. They saw him everywhere and couldn¡¯t handle it.


    I¡¯d never noticed how lonely the playground was by yourself until then.


    I¡¯d never noticed how all my games were multiplayer.


    I¡¯d never noticed how you need an opponent to play basketball against.


    I was alone. I¡¯m still alone.


    Sometimes I see him out of the corner of my eye. He appears at the highs and lows of my life, a skinny and pallid boy laughing and pointing. I¡¯ve tried to move on, I really have. But no matter what I do, it feels like I cannot escape the ghost of the past.


    But maybe that was a lie. Maybe I¡¯m just scared; scared of change and scared of being happy again. I feel like I don¡¯t deserve it. I put on a mask that I have painted on my face, never to be taken off. I¡¯ve tricked everyone into thinking I¡¯m fine, but I¡¯m not. I have deceived them all with this fa?ade I put on. Tricked them with my greatest piece of artwork yet.


    It reminds me of an old myth told by Pliny the Elder. There were 2 painters, Zeuxis and Parrhasius, both renowned in their time for the detail and realism that made it seem that their paintings were real.


    One day, Zeuxis painted a bushel of grapes so well that the wildlife kept on trying to eat them. He was so proud that he bragged about it for days. All the town had heard his boasting, and all the town was sick of it. The other painter, Parrhasius, was so sick of it that he stayed in his room for weeks, trying to create a masterpiece that would surpass that of Zeuxis. After he finished, Parrhasius invited Zeuxis to his studio. Upon entering, Parrhasius asked Zeuxis to open the curtain so he could see Parrhasius¡¯ best work yet.


    However, when Zeuxis moved to open the curtain, his hand hit canvas instead. Rather than a curtain, Parrhasius had created a hyper realistic painting. Zeuxis admitted defeat, claiming that while he had deceived the birds, Parrhasius had defeated him, a fellow man and artist.


    I¡¯m seventeen now. My best friend had just turned eleven.


    -Tom with his paper crown shall rule the school,


    A Fool

 Waiting

    I¡¯m a tree. Calm and ponderous; the antithesis of modern life. It¡¯s a nice life, unburdened by the pressure to move on and move forward. Where I am now is where I always have been and where I always will be.


    Why hello bird, I greet the blue jay that perches on my branch. It seems I¡¯ll have a new tenant. It¡¯s on a mission to gather twigs to build a nest. Back and forth across the forest, the bird flies from tree to tree.


    We come to an agreement, the bird and me. I provide a home and the bird spreads my seeds for me. I won¡¯t last forever, but I¡¯d like to leave a legacy, and the birds help me do that. In my life, I¡¯ve provided shelter to many an animal. I¡¯ve watched dozens of lives and deaths.


    I witness the moon chase the sun in a never-ending exercise in futility. Time passes and the blue jay has a family. The nest perched in my branch now has 3 baby birds, chirping for food from their mother. I don¡¯t know what happened to the father, it disappeared long ago. But they seem to be doing fine on their own, the family of birds thriving day after day. I see the babies start to fly, and they are gone too soon. They¡¯ve gone to make nests of their own and the mother is now an empty nester.


    The mother grows old, she become slow and ponderous; just like I have been its whole time. One day, it falls on the ground and becomes nutrients for my roots. I thank it for its life and for it¡¯s death. It was a good companion.


    Not even a week later, I see movement along the ground. It¡¯s a human passing by. I see the human a few more times in the coming days.


    The human came today with things in its hands, maybe it would like to make a nest amongst my branches. It carefully folds a thin slice of my deceased brethren in half and puts it in its clothing.


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    I see tears falling down its face.


    Don¡¯t cry little one, you¡¯ve found a home to make your own. There¡¯s no need to be sad, this should be a joyous occasion.


    The human makes its nest in a strange manner. One end of the twine is wrapped around one of my branches and the other is tied into a loop the size of its head.


    That can¡¯t possibly be comfortable, I wonder. Shouldn¡¯t a forever home be something you take great care in? Times like these I wish I wasn¡¯t a tree. But these moments are always fleeting, for I am exactly what I am meant to be. I am a tree, and it is a human. Neither of us are perfect, but that¡¯s what makes us perfect.


    The human takes out a sharp tool and carves into my bark. I don¡¯t mind, it¡¯s always good to customize your home.


    It takes out the slice of my dead brethren. It gazes at it for a long while, as if contemplating something.


    The human seems to be in a hurry, as if it wants to get this over with. But it has all the time in the world; I won¡¯t abandon it. I can¡¯t, after all, I¡¯m a tree. Despite being the one stuck in the ground, I am the freer of us two.


    The human seems to come to a decision. It climbs up to the branch it tied its home to and puts the other end around its neck. It then looks towards the ground.


    It¡¯s very high up from the ground. I¡¯ve had a long time to grow as a tree, and the branch the human is on is twice its height.


    The human takes a deep breath before jumping off the branch, its neck still tied to one end of its new home.


    I¡¯m curious, I¡¯ve never seen this type of home before. It doesn¡¯t seem comfortable, but what do I know? I¡¯m just a tree.


    Its new home tightens as it¡¯s stretched to its limits. I make an executive decision and make my branch break. I can¡¯t in good conscious let the human sleep like that.


    The human falls to the ground, its knees crumble and its legs fold backwards.


    Slowly, the human stands up. It looks up at where the branch used to be and starts to laugh. The human starts kicking my trunk, but it¡¯s okay. I let it get its anger out. Maybe now it¡¯ll build a proper home to rest amongst my branches.


    It starts to walk away, dropping its note and leaving its old home lying on the ground.


    I never see the human again, though I do see one many years later. It has over a hundred slices of my dead brethren in its hands. It just stares at me for a long while, visiting every now and then while moving a stick along the slices. It does this for many cycles of the sun and moon, at least 30. On the last visit, the human takes out a sharp tool and carves into my bark alongside the previous human¡¯s mark.


    Then, just like the other human it disappears never to be seen again. Maybe it found a suitable home, just like the previous human.


    If it ever shows up again, I¡¯ll be here, waiting.

 A man does not need wings, when he knows his feet will do.

    Setting The Scene


    Before we begin, I need to introduce the perspective we¡¯ll be seeing it from. Her name is Agnes, and she was as old as her name suggested and had quite the strange accent.


    ¡°The fuck¡¯re you doin¡¯ ¡®ere?¡±


    My first interaction with her was not a pleasant one. In fact, it was quite the opposite. She pointed a gun at me.


    ¡°I don¡¯ want no fucking bible thumpers at me door.¡±


    I began to doubt the veracity of John¡¯s claims. She didn¡¯t seem nearly as kind-hearted as he told me. But still, I persevered. She didn¡¯t want to talk to me, even after I explained that I was a friend of John. I showed up at her house day after day until she finally let me sit down and talk to her.


    Some would say that my methods of getting her to talk were rude, and they certainly were. I felt, however, that this was a story that needed to be told. I¡¯m well aware that there might have been more diplomatic ways of achieving my goal, but I¡¯ve never been a diplomatic person.


    I sat down on the sofa and gazed about the interior. The place would have looked like it was plucked out of the seventies and sent through time, if not for the layers of dust atop every surface, accumulated over the decades of living alone.


    I was unsure of where to begin. I had been so full of energy and vigor, ready to flex my social muscles. But when the time came, I learned I had overestimated my communication skills.


    ¡°Well? Spit it out, I ain¡¯t got all day, ya¡¯ know.¡± She sat down across from me and glared. I tried to speak, but my vocal cords had failed me. She just continued to glare until I caught my bearings.


    ¡°I¡¯m here to ask about John,¡± I said, the name feeling foreign on my tongue.


    ¡°Who?¡± she replied, showing no recognition after I mentioned the name.


    I pulled out a photo I had in my pocket of John from before we¡¯d met.


    ¡°Oh, her. How¡¯z she doin¡¯?¡± her voice and eyes softened slightly once she saw John¡¯s photo.


    ¡°She¡¯s¡­¡± I struggled to finish the sentence. I didn¡¯t know why, the whole reason I was there was because John had died. Why was it so hard to say those few words?


    ¡°¡­ dead.¡± I managed to say, my voice had become emotionless, and I didn¡¯t let my face betray my true thoughts.


    ¡°Huh.¡± Was all Agnes muttered, her voice barely a whisper. ¡°Well, that¡¯s a damn shame, ain¡¯t it.¡±


    We sat in companionable silence for a while, both contemplating the loss of someone who touched our hearts.


    ¡°That all you came ¡®ere ta say?¡± she asked, much kinder now. She almost seemed grandmotherly.


    ¡°I want to ask about the¡­¡± I tried to find the right words for it. ¡°Incident.¡±


    She scoffed. ¡°That¡¯s one way ¡¯ta put it.¡±


    She had certainly bounced back quickly; her grandmotherly fa?ade disappeared, the fire in her eyes quickly reigniting.


    I¡¯ll try to describe the events from her perspective to the best of my ability. I¡¯ll try to mimic her thought process and actions, though it certainly won¡¯t be perfect. I can dive into the mind of a fictional character, but I can¡¯t fully dive into the mind of a real person. Reality is often more multi-faceted than fiction would have you believe. There is rarely pure good and pure evil. Everyone has motivations, and things that may be frowned upon in books are not bad in real life. Could humanity thrive without greed? Without the drive to have more, to make more, to be more?


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    And so, she told me a story. One I¡¯ll try to faithfully recreate.


    So begins the story of Agnes, and the little ¡®girl¡¯ who made her feel joy again.


    Ironic, Ain¡¯t It?


    Life sucks, and then you die.


    Agnes had forgotten where that phrase came from, but it certainly rang true. She led a purposeless life, and what use was someone without a purpose?


    Age had done a number on her. She was in pain all the time, and not just physically. Her mind was awash with the sorrows accumulated over the years.


    Her husband was gone, he had been gone for quite a while.


    She can¡¯t even smoke right now, she had been invited to a housewarming party.


    What a load a crap, she thought. Just move in and be done with it. No need for all this here pageantry.


    Nonetheless, she wasn¡¯t one to turn down free food. At least, she hoped there was free food. If not, she¡¯d raise hell. That wasn¡¯t an idle threat, she¡¯d done that many times in the past. Now, it was rare for anyone to invite her places. The only people who did were those who didn¡¯t know her and the idiots who thought of themselves as therapists, despite being unlicensed and utterly terrible at it.


    The new neighbors lived on the right of her, two houses down. Despite being the same size and design, they could easily be told apart.


    Theirs was neatly maintained, with freshly mowed bright green glass and a new coat of ocean blue paint on the house.


    In contrast, her lawn was dying, which was good because she wouldn¡¯t have mowed it even if it grew. The paint of her house was chipped, and the bottom part was stained brown from the sprinklers, which she never figured out how to turn off.


    Had her husband been around, he would have been embarrassed by the state of their house. He treated it like his baby, which she never quite understood. Maybe he needed something to dote on, because after their son left the house, he¡¯d only ever show up to ask for money. Once they no longer had any left, he stopped showing up.


    Good riddance was how she thought. She doted on him when he was a kid, but he got caught up in the wrong crowd and became an irredeemable piece of shit.


    Her husband never quite got over it. He always hoped their son would come back to them some day. Even on his deathbed, he remained optimistic till his heart finally stopped beating.


    ¡°He¡¯ll come tomorrow,¡± he¡¯d tell her, and she just nodded along. She fed him the lie repeatedly, knowing full well that their son couldn¡¯t be bothered to visit. He was getting high somewhere up north.


    She walked up the steps of her new neighbors¡¯ house and steeled herself to knock. She could smell BBQ on the grill and could hear indistinct chattering from the background.


    ¡°Hey! How¡¯re you doing?¡± her new neighbor asked. The lady had opened the door, probably having seen Agnes through the window.


    She was in her late twenties; her face was rounded as if she never quite lost all her baby fat. She had kind eyes and a cross hanging from her neck. Behind her was a child, no more than 11 years old, shyly looking at the ground. It was as if she was unable to make eye contact. She was swaying back and forth nervously, her hands clasped together as if she was trying to restrain herself from fleeing at that very moment.


    ¡°I¡¯m Mary, and this is Joanne,¡± the lady gestured at the girl behind her. The girls face flushed red. ¡°What¡¯s your name?¡±


    ¡°The name¡¯s Agnes, it¡¯s a pleasure to meetcha.¡± Agnes tried to plaster on a polite smile. She wasn¡¯t sure how well she succeeded, as the lady¡¯s smile faltered for a second.


    Agnes stuck her hand out for a handshake, which was reciprocated. Her grasp was firm and confident, whilst Mary¡¯s grip was soft and ladylike.


    She¡¯s tryin¡¯ too hard, Agnes thought, looking at Mary. She was trying so hard to convey the image of a polite, well-to-do Christian mother. She played the part well, almost to perfection. But Agnes was a cynical lady and believed everyone was secretly a terrible person willing to do anything to get their way.


    Maybe she was right, or maybe she was wrong. But time would tell and besides, it never hurt to be prepared.


    She followed Mary and the kid (she¡¯d already forgotten her name) to the backyard. She was greeted to the sounds of kids laughing in the bouncy house and adults talking amongst each other about useless things like the weather.


    Despite now being in a backyard full of kids her age, the kid still stuck near her mother. It was strange, her son would have abandoned her for his friends in an instant without any hesitation.


    ¡°Don¡¯t you want to go on the bouncy house?¡± Mary tried to encourage the kid to go and play with kids her age. ¡°Everyone your age seems really nice.¡±


    Mary¡¯s attempts fell on deaf ears, as the kid refused to leave her mother¡¯s side.


    Mary sighed softly before glancing over at Agnes, as if she suddenly remembered Agnes was still there.


    ¡°Would you like to meet my husband?¡± Mary asked. It wasn¡¯t really a question, as she had already started walking to where her husband presumably was.


    Like hell I want¡¯a go, Agnes thought, though she certainly couldn¡¯t say that. She had a reputation to uphold¡­ kind of. She didn¡¯t want to sound rude in front of the kid, they looked like they¡¯d die of a heart attack at the first loud noise.


    And so, keeping that in mind, she reluctantly followed Mary, who¡¯d stopped in front of the grill.


    Manning the grill was a man who appeared to be in his late twenties to early thirties. He had an energetic look to him, wiry and ready to run a marathon. He looked like your stereotypical youth pastor, the only thing he was missing was a guitar.


    ¡°This is my husband, Jack.¡± Mary said, while Jack looked up from the hotdogs and smiled at Agnes, his eyes squinting as he looked in the direction of the sun. In contrast to his wife¡¯s pale skin, he was tanned as if he¡¯d spent most of his life outdoors.


    He''s actin¡¯ like I¡¯m tha fuckin¡¯ pope, she mused. He was far too excitable for her liking.


    So this is how Agnes met the Anderson family and- depending on perspective- either improved, or fucked up, Johns life.


    ¡°Feet, what do I need you for when I have wings to fly?¡±


    <ul>


    <li>Frida Kahlo</li>


    </ul>


    Dear Reader,


    Wings, what do I need you for when I have feet to walk the earth? I don¡¯t desire to be like Icarus and make history, though I¡¯ve seen people who have the polar opposite reaction to the story of Icarus.


    I believe it was Oscar Wilde who said ¡°Never regret thy fall, O Icarus of the fearless flight. For the greatest tragedy of them all is never to feel the burning light.¡±


    I don¡¯t desire to fly high, glamourous and free. I don¡¯t desire to fly high, see far below and touch the clouds. I can see all I desire, walking along the ground. I can be one with nature, humble and interconnected to it all. For as the saying goes, ¡°pride cometh before the fall¡±.


    I desire no grand destiny, nor feel a need to tempt fate. Those foolish dreams of younger me, time kindly did abate. And rather than the burning light that Wilde desired so, the sun provides a warm embrace, a kind and gentle glow. I see the man-made wonders, from a perspective meant to be. Unlike Icarus, whose sight was tiny as a flea.


    I may not get to where I want fast. But unlike those wings, I know my feet were made to last.


    -A man does not need wings, when he knows his feet will do,


    A Fool