Esther Chilton

If you’d like to be included in this slot, please get in touch: estherchilton@gmail.com. Poems can be up to 60 lines and prose 2000 words. If you’d like to add a short bio and photo, then great. All I ask is that there’s nothing offensive.

My guest this Friday is a writer many of you are familiar with, but it’s the first time she’s appeared on my blog as a guest. Please give a wonderful welcome to Jan Sikes. She’s a very talented author who writes from the heart. Today, she’s treating us with a beautiful new story:

Pieces of Him

By

Jan Sikes

Dust motes danced in the lone beam of afternoon sun cutting across the living room, illuminating the chaos of boxes and the ghostly outlines of where furniture used to sit. Eleanor ran a hand over the now empty space on the wall where their wedding photo had hung for twenty-five years. Now, only a pale rectangle remained, a silent testament to a life uprooted.

She’d saved his file cabinet for last, dreading the chore. He’d always kept it meticulously organized, unlike the beautiful, creative mess of his mind. But as she pulled out the bottom drawer, a stiff manila envelope kept it stuck. It lay tucked behind a stack of tax returns from a decade ago. It wasn’t labeled. Nothing indicated what might be inside.

Eleanor sank to the floor, cross-legged, the faded envelope cool against her fingers as she undid the clasp. She peered in and found fragments of papers. None of it made sense. She spilled them onto the dusty carpet. A creased napkin from the nightclub where he’d played so many years ago grabbed her attention. She moved on to a torn corner of notebook paper. A tiny square of cardstock, almost entirely blank, the ink so faded it was merely a ghost of a word, tumbled out.

She picked up the napkin first. On it, in hurried script, were these words: In passion a rare wine was tasted, once of which few shall ever drink. She tenderly held the aged napkin and remembered the first time she’d seen him. He’d stood on stage and sung love words from the heart, and she was smitten from that moment on.

She dropped the napkin and picked up a scrap of notebook paper. You’ve given your soft warm body lovingly, and you lie cuddled close to me… Eleanor smiled, a brittle, painful thing. He’d known. He’d always known. While he hadn’t always found the words to say out loud, he wrote, and it came from the heart.

The faded cardstock slipped from her fingers. She squinted, trying to coax the phantom words into focus. Her knees popped as she got up from the floor. She’d packed a magnifying glass in a box somewhere. And while it might prove hard to find, the desire to read the ghost words drove her. A single letter, a faint ‘T’, was all she could discern.

After rifling through three boxes, she retrieved the elusive glass and dropped into a chair. Some were lookers. Some were hookers. There were teasers and takers, pleasers and makers. Others just ol’ gals. Many were good pals. Honey, I’ve known a few, but didn’t know nothing ‘til I knew you. She’d never been under any illusion about her husband’s rakish ways. He’d hidden nothing from her. But she knew in her heart since they’d said “I do,” he’d never strayed.

Her breath caught, and tears dripped off her chin. He hadn’t strayed, but she had. Now, sitting amongst the memories of their life, she questioned why. Was it to make a point? Was it hunger, or need? Why hadn’t she simply waited? He’d been sick for so long. At times, all hope was gone. And she’d grown old and tired, moving from wife and lover to caretaker. Was that it? She questioned everything she knew about herself, about them.

Oh, she’d loved him. That had never stopped. So, why had she felt the need to seek another man’s arms? Was it to feel alive and wanted again? Sure, there were ways to justify it, but in truth, there were none valid or good enough. She dropped the paper she held and sobbed into her hands.

“Forgive me,” she cried. “Please let me know you forgive me. Wherever you are, please let me know.”

The phone rang, and she reached for a tissue and took a deep breath. “Hello.” She couldn’t hide the tremble in her voice.

“Mom, are you okay?”

“Yes. I was just going through Dad’s file cabinet, and I found an envelope with pieces of his writings from forty years ago. It brought back so many memories.”

“Don’t do that alone. I’m coming over.”

“It’s not necessary, honey. I really need to be by myself.”

“If you say so, but you call me if you need some company or a glass of wine.”

“I will. I promise.”

She hung up the phone and returned to the pieces of a life well-lived scattered across the floor. No matter what, she’d hold on to these writings as they revealed the deepest part of the man she loved even more fiercely now that he was gone.

A carefully folded piece of notebook paper caught her eye. He thinks he owns you, that you belong to him. You say the kids need you and you stay because of them. I wonder if he’s the only one you’re deceiving, for you have a way to keep me dreaming of, wanting and needing your hand-me-down love.

No doubt that one had been written for Mary, the woman he’d been with the night Eleanor had met him. He’d told her many times about how Mary lied and deceived him. She tucked it back inside the envelope and moved to the next.

Put your memory beside your picture on the shelf. I’m finally getting in touch with myself, stopped looking back as much…

It’s true Jim had spent a lifetime trying to find himself. He’d been a deep thinker, always searching for truth and hidden shadows. She moved on to the next carefully folded piece of paper. The fingers find the notes but the soul makes the music…

How often, he’d sat strumming on his guitar while she fixed supper. He’d always managed to find the notes, and then often, it all came together in perfection — The notes, the words and the rhythm. And usually just in time for dinner to be served. Those were moments she’d always hold dear to her heart. It wasn’t just the words or the music. It went way deeper.

She continued reading each tiny scrap and each proclamation of the soul. He’d so often tried to tell her some of these things. Was it that she didn’t listen? Or was it his inability to articulate the feelings in the moment.

Whatever the reason, now she had all these tiny pieces of himself he’d preserved through writing — pieces of himself he’d tried to save, only for time to steal them all away.

Maybe she should take all of these and put them into a book. A tribute of sorts.

A gust blew through an open window and sent the papers flying in all directions. Eleanor scrambled to gather them and one-by-one tucked them back inside the manila envelope to explore again later once she was settled in her new life alone.

Each scrap was a whisper, a breath, a tiny, glimpse into his thoughts and feelings she hadn’t known she was missing.

No matter what, she’d always cherish these pieces of him.

Author bio:

Jan Sikes is a multi-award-winning author, who writes compelling and creative stories from the heart.

She openly admits that she never set out in life to be an author, although she’s been an avid reader all her life. But she had a story to tell—Not just any story, but a true story to rival any fiction creation. She brought the powerful true story to life through fictitious characters in an intricately woven tale that encompasses four books, accompanying music CDs, and a book of poetry and art.

And now, this author can’t put down the pen. She continues to write fiction in a variety of genres, and has published many award-winning short stories and novels. She is an active blogger, a member of the Story Empire group, loves to support indie artists (both literary and musical) and is the grandmother of five beautiful souls. Fine out more at http://www.jansikes.com.