Finding oneself is a difficult task. We often live in a world of confusion, our destiny unknown.

Troubled, we search for answers. And, if we discover them, it may be in unexpected ways, as becomes evident in . . .

The Garden Of His Dreams

     Milton Hadley was a sad man. Alone in a world he despised, he had one love—music. His fingers played an imaginary piano. And he strummed an air guitar, as he pranced though the alleys near his small flat in London.

     Tunes flowed through his mind, and he danced to the rhythm of a band only he could hear. His head moved back and forth to the beat of the drum that caused his eyes to lose focus, as he wobbled amongst neighbors who wished he would disappear.

     A mystery to all, including himself, he never acknowledged the other beings in the audience who watched his disjointed performance in disbelief. They shook their heads, as this troubled soul weaved in and out between them. He both amused and scared them.

     As darkness fell upon the neighborhood, he returned to his one bedroom domicile, cluttered with junk he collected as he wandered the streets surrounding his home. Without undressing or washing up, he crawled into his sleeping bag that rested on an old, tattered mattress he had found in a dumpster behind his apartment building.

     Tonight he slept soundly, a rare occurrence for this troubled creature. But then music, loud rumbling sounds, entered his peaceful world. He wiggled out of his bedroll, his hands moving to the tempo storming through his mind, his feet stomping in an awkward manner that made him unstable as he moved toward the bathroom.

     He threw water on his face, as his body swayed back and forth, much of it traveling to the mirror above the sink covered with dirt that obscured his pockmarked facial image. Water dribbled off the mirror, making tinny sounds as it fell into the basin and ran down the drain. He pulled a grungy towel off the bar that hung askew on the wall and rubbed his face with it.

     Another cloudy day had arrived, and once again the music in his head began to blare. His hands moved, as if conducting a 100-piece orchestra. His soiled, wrinkled jacket made waves around his arms. The music playing made no sense. This scared him, as he could not remember this ever happening before.

     He began to tremble. His whole body rocked, but it was out of sync with the music. This could not be, he thought. It did not work this way. Had he lost control? Or did he ever have it? He closed his eyes to try to regain command of the symphony that ruled his life. Then the music faded and he heard strange melodic voices, but they were not singing—just speaking.

     “Milton Hadley was a great man. We lost him all too soon. Only fifty-six, but an accomplished musician and conductor, he reached his lofty goal and performed in ‘The Garden of His Dreams’ at Buckingham Palace, before the Queen of England. To commemorate his passing a year ago, I ask you to pray with me.

      “Another note has dropped

                                 from the scale of life.

                                 But we still remember his presence,

                                 in the recreation of the music

                                 that flowed with inspiration

                                 from the depths of his soul.

                                 Let him depart the soil

                                 in which he was buried,

                                 to fly with harp-playing angels,

                                 and feel the magic of performing

                                 in heaven’s theater.

                                 Free him from all earthly responsibilities

                                 to again play in the garden of his dreams.

                                 He leaves fragrant blossoms,

                                 flowing from his melodies

                                 from which all can seek comfort.

                                 He will never be forgotten.”

     And so Milton Hadley pushed aside the torment he had taken with him to the grave and released himself from the burdens he had carried during a year in limbo. Not the poor soul he believed he had become, he could now dream of a peaceful existence in the hereafter.

Copyright © 2016 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.

Should a father and son always be open and honest with one another? And what if they’re not.

Family secrets can have strange consequences, as you will see in . . .

Honor Thy Father And Other

     The dark gray clouds, draped like a shroud, obscured the sun. My mind drifted in and out of my own mental fog. I felt confused about life, and what happened next didn’t help matters.

     Black Friday, the day after Thanksgiving, my father awoke early—about 5:00 a.m. He had to get to the store to secure a place in line to have a chance to buy the newest, magical “iSomething.” Why he needed it, I couldn’t figure out. I didn’t believe he had any idea either.

     I sat at the kitchen table and awaited his return. He had been gone over five hours. I worried about him. Seventy-six years old, legally blind in one eye, with reflexes slowed by age, he still drove his beat up old Ford. I hated that he was still driving, but he’d just received his driver’s license renewal from the DMV. So there was nothing I could say to him that would change his mind.

     “Honor thy father,” he would chant, anytime I disagreed with his stance on an issue. “Just honor thy father.” And so I did.

     The phone rang, shaking me from my stupor. I picked it up off the table. “Hello,” I muttered. “Yes, I can come. Okay, I’ll leave as soon as I dress. How is he?” No answer. Just a click and I was disconnected.

     I raced to the bedroom, threw on a pair of black trousers and the wrinkled plaid shirt I’d worn yesterday, picked up my car keys off the nightstand, and ran to the garage. I backed the car out and headed down Logan Way toward the freeway.

     My heart raced and my hands shook. What the hell did Merritt Hospital want? They just told me to come, but didn’t answer my question about how he was. I swerved in and out of traffic in an attempt to get to the hospital as fast as I could. With one eye glued to the rearview mirror, I prayed I wouldn’t be pulled over.

     I exited the freeway at the Merritt Boulevard Exit, turned left, and sped toward the hospital parking lot. Stopping at the control gate, I reached for a parking ticket. The gate rose and I pulled into the first open spot I saw. I’d driven thirty-two miles in just under eighteen minutes. I breathed a sigh of relief. I hadn’t been stopped for speeding or ended up in a hospital bed after a collision. I got out of the car and bounded into the hospital lobby. I froze in fear of what stood before me—a cop.

     The officer approached. I’m going to get arrested for sure, I thought.

     “Mr. Jackson. Tony Jackson,” he called out.

     I gasped, “How do you know my name?” Must’ve gotten it from tracking my license plate.

     “You are Mr. Jackson?” he inquired, with authority.

     “Uh, yeah, I am.”

     “Please come with me.”

     “Okay. But I only drove as fast as I did to get to the hospital. I think my father has been in an accident. I had to get here. I’m sorry. I won’t do it again.”

     The officer looked at me with a befuddled look on his face. “I don’t have a clue what you are ranting about, sir.”

     I stood stunned by his remark. “Then what do you want?”

     “I need you to come with me.”

     “Why? Am I being arrested?”

     “No, I just need to ask you a couple of questions, in private.”

     “About what? Should I call my attorney?”

     “Call your attorney? I don’t see any reason for you to do that. This isn’t a formal interrogation.”

     “Okay, then I guess it will be all right.”

     “Then follow me, sir.”

     I trudged behind him toward the elevator. When the door opened, we entered. I stood with my head bowed and watched him press the button for the sixth floor. The door closed and the elevator moved from one to two. The door opened, but nobody got on. The door closed and the elevator proceeded to the sixth floor. The door opened and he motioned to me to exit.

     “Where are we going,” I stammered.

     “You’ll know when we get there,” he replied. “Just do as I say.”

     I felt like telling him to take a flying leap off a tall building, but I kept my mouth shut. I just wanted to know what happened to my father and hoped this civil servant could provide the answer.

     We walked down a long, dimly lit corridor. The rooms we passed all had locks on them. “Where are we?” I asked, my voice quivering.

     “You’ll soon find out,” he said, in a way that sent chills running down my spine. “Now keep your mouth shut or I’ll shut it for you.”

     “What kind of cop are you?” I asked in a not so nice manner. He didn’t answer. He just grabbed my arm and shoved me against the wall. My head hit a low hanging pipe and I collapsed into a sea of darkness.

     When I came to, I found myself alone in a sterile room tied down to a hospital bed. I tried to free myself, but to no avail. I heard voices coming down the hall. Then it became quiet. A key being placed in the lock of the door made a clicking sound as it turned. I had no idea what to expect, so I pretended to be asleep.

     Three men entered the room, all dressed in gray suits and blue and gray striped ties. They wore badges, not police badges, but what looked like military badges. Perplexed by this, I became anxious. Then the largest of the three men turned to the tallest of the other two and spoke, “General, I believe he is ready.”

     Ready? Ready for what? I thought. Tension gripped my body. Then a man who appeared to be my father, dressed in a dark black suit, entered the room. My father hadn’t worn a suit like that in over ten years. The three men turned, stood at attention, and saluted him. He returned the salute.

     “At ease men,” he proclaimed in a loud, strong voice.

     “”Dad, what’s happening,” I murmured.

     “Dad? I am not your father. However, I do know the man you are talking about. I have seen him on my frequent visits to the hospital. Some say he is my double. But I am the President of the United States of America, not this other gentleman you are . . .”

     Interrupted in the middle of his sentence by the door of the room being smashed open, he stood silent and stared. Two uniformed hospital guards, accompanied by three city policemen, seized the four men and placed them in restraints. One of the guards, with the appropriate hospital badge affixed to his blue uniform jacket, came over to me and untied me.

     “Mr. Jackson, I’m so sorry for what has happened to you.”

     “Where am I?”

     “You’re in the Psych Ward. There appears to have been an inmate takeover of the ward, one of which we were not aware of, until now.  At least one patient was able to get down to the lobby to greet you. How these patients managed to obtain a police uniform, badges, and dress clothing is a mystery to us, but some ward residents do work in the hospital laundry, which our staff, including city police officers assigned to our public hospital, are permitted to use.”

     “How did you know I was here?”

     “A desk clerk witnessed what occurred in the lobby and reported it.”

     “What about the call I received to come here? Is my father all right?”

     “I don’t know who made the call. However, your father isn’t here.”

     “But that man over there. He is my father, isn’t he?”

     At that moment, a doctor, dressed in a white lab coat entered the room and approached the “President,” who ranted about his right to be free to run the country. “Mr. Jackson, calm down,” the doctor ordered.

     “So he is my father,” I screamed.

     “No,” said the doctor. He is your father’s identical twin brother. He has been here for thirty years. Your father has visited him once a month, during the entire time he has been under our care, including today.”

     “Including today?” I asked, with a puzzled look on my face.

     “Yes, including today.”

     “So he’s my father’s brother?”

     “Yes, the other Mr. Jackson—the one whose existence your father chose to keep secret all these years.”

     This statement upended me. I paused for a second to collect my thoughts. And then mumbled, “You did say my father was here today?”

     “I did. We found him and four ward staff members locked in a room down the hall. We’re bringing him to you, as we speak.”

     Before I could reply, my father entered.

     The “President” took one look at him and then looked me straight in the eye and commanded, “You must honor me, as you do your father. For I am the other . . .”

     At that moment, the guards took hold of him and removed him from the room. I just stared in disbelief. My father embraced me. The entire episode left me speechless—something I’d never been before in my life.

Copyright © 2015 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.

You have a wonderful life. You’re a success. Everything makes sense to you.

Then one day the phone rings, and the caller asks for your help. What happens next turns your world upside down, as you will see in . . .

Repairing The Terrible Twos

     My name is Tom Archer and I’ve been working for Jefferson, Martin, and Smith for twelve years. As an advertising firm, we have become a leader in assisting private companies to increase sales. Our success in marketing hard to sell products has become legendary in the business.

     I gazed out the window of my sixth floor office of the Keesler Building, located on the corner of Third and Madison, just across the street from “Heaven,” when the phone rang. I reached for it and said, “Archer speaking.”

     No answer. I began to hang up, when a soft, pleasant voice murmured, “Mr. Archer, Tom Archer?”

     “Yes, this is Tom Archer. How can I be of assistance?”

     “You don’t know me, Mr. Archer, but someone who you have done work for referred me to you.”

     “That’s great. But who are you?”

     “The man who suggested I give you a call, Terrence Harper, said you had the expertise to make things happen.”

     “You didn’t answer my question.”

     “And I’m in need of some serious help.”

     “Why do you keep avoiding my very simple question?”

     “Let me outline my problem. Two years ago, I started a business to pair people up with a significant other they had lost.”

     “Oh, matchmaking, like eHarmony.”

     “Well, no. I don’t think you’re following me.”

     “Then what? You help them cope with death or divorce?”

     “No, no. Nothing like that.”

     “This is getting very frustrating. Stop being so elusive and get to the point.”

     “Be patient. This is not easy for me. I think I may have to call you back.”

     She hung up without saying good-bye. Just slammed the phone down. I didn’t know what to make of it. So I stared out the window, looking toward “Heaven.”

     Then I heard someone enter my office. I swiveled around in my chair to see who it was.

     “Tom, what are you staring at?”

     “Oh, Jason. Nothing really. Just got off the phone with a crazy woman. I couldn’t even get her to tell me her name.”

     “I wouldn’t worry about it. There’s nothing you can do unless she calls back.”

     “ Yeah, I know. But . . .  “

     “No buts, just leave it alone.”

     Before I could utter another word, Jason, Jason Martin, one of our managing partners, turned and exited my office, leaving me with thoughts of the strange woman still lingering in my mind. Thinking I needed to get some work done, I turned and hit the keyboard and my computer screen came alive. As I looked through my emails, the phone rang. Grabbing it, I sputtered, “Archer, speaking. May I help you?”

     “Tom, it’s me, Melanie Warren.”

     The voice, sounding feeble, was that of the woman who had hung up on me. “Okay, Melanie Warren. Are you going to hang up on me again?”

     “I apologize for the abrupt end to our call, but I got cold feet. I began to think I was wrong for calling you in the first place.”

     “But why?”

     “Well, it’s complicated.”

     “How so?”

     “Not quite three years ago, I received an anonymous call. What the caller told me rattled my peaceful world.”

     She paused. My impatience got the best of me, so I pushed her to continue. “In what way, Melanie?” I asked in a somewhat abrupt manner.

     “He told me I had a twin brother. Thirty-seven years ago, my mother gave birth to a baby boy, named Samuel, and me. My parents were very poor. Caring for two babies seemed like an impossibility, so they turned to the church in their small country town for help.”

     The phone went quiet. “Melanie, did you hang up on me again?”

     “No, I’m still here. This is hard for me to talk about. What my parents had to do blew me away. Apparently, twelve pairs of twins had been born during a sixteen-month period, all to families struggling to survive. The church labeled the epidemic, “The Terrible Twos.”

     “That’s pretty harsh.”

     “Not as harsh as telling these beleaguered families they must give up one of their twins. They weren’t given any other option. So, my parents, fearing they would lose the church’s blessing, gave my brother up for adoption. They, and the others in the same position, were ordered never to tell the child chosen to remain with them that they had a twin sibling, or the wrath of ‘Heaven’ would fall upon them.”

     “So, who was the caller who told you about your twin brother?”

     “I have no idea. But that’s when I began thinking of ways to find Samuel and the other missing twins. And out of this need came the birth of my business, “Repairing the Terrible Twos.”

     “Okay, but I don’t know why Terrance suggested you call me? What can I do? Our agency does advertising for companies trying to sell products. We don’t find babies. Hire a private detective.”

     “I did. Three of them. All proved to be unsuccessful in finding my twin brother or in providing me with any helpful advice. When I mentioned this to Terrence, he told me to contact you. He said, through your vast array of nontraditional advertising techniques you might catch the eye of one or more of the separated twins.”

     “Hmm, I don’t know what to say.”

     “This must be hard for you to understand, coming from a normal family. Did you have any brothers or sisters?”

     “No. I’m an only child.” I paused for a second. “I’m adopted,” I replied, my voice shaking.

     “Do you know anything about your birth parents?”

     “Nothing. I’ve been too busy to look into it. Or, to be honest, too scared.”

     “Well, maybe working with me will help you uncover the secrets of your own past.”

     Reluctant to respond, I just shook my head.

     “Are you still there, Tom?”

     “Yeah, I’m still here. By the way, do you happen to remember the name of the church?”

     “Yes, it’s now embedded in my mind and soul. It’s called, ‘The Blessed Heaven Sanctuary of God.’ Most of the townspeople referred to it as just ‘Heaven.’ And others called it ‘Hell.’”

     “My God, there’s a church called “Heaven’ across the street from my office. I see it every day from my window. Do you know if your parents’ church has branches?”

     “I believe so.”

     “Did the detectives visit the church to try to get the information you needed?”

     “Well, first they tried the county and found out all records were sealed, so they had no way to gain access. Then they approached the church, but the priest and nuns just stonewalled them. Told them the records had been destroyed in a fire in an outbuilding, where old records were stored.”

     “Okay, let me go across the street and see if I can gather some data from this branch of the church. Maybe I can find out something that will help me identify a focus for my advertising. You know, in my thirty-seven years on this planet, I’ve never played detective. This’ll be interesting. Let me have your number and I’ll get back to you.”

     “May I ask what this will cost me?”

     “Uh, nothing, right now. If I uncover something, then we can discuss setting up a contract. This part is on me.”

     “Oh, thank you. I really appreciate it.”

     “You’re welcome.”

     “My number is 900-653-2960.”

     “I’ll let you know if I can get any information out of the church in a few days.”

     I hung up, leaned back in my chair, and speculated about how to present myself to the priest at the church. I also thought about what Melanie looked like. As she spoke, I became intrigued by her enticing voice.

     The next day I went directly to the church from home. As I opened the large brass door and entered a long hallway decorated with ornate religious artwork, an old, bent over man pushing a broom glanced up at me. He had a weird look in his eyes, as they moved up and down my body. I stood there unable to budge. I didn’t know why, but I let him peruse me. And then I saw tears in his eyes. I started to speak, but stopped as he put his index finger to his mouth.

     “Young man,” he gasped. I knew your father. You look just like him.”

     “You couldn’t have. I . . .” Again his finger crossed his lips.

     “I met him thirty-seven years ago in our small town church. Times were hard for families then. He didn’t want to give you up, but he didn’t have the money the church elders required for your mother and him to keep both you and your twin sister, Melanie. I remember him, with tears running down his face, as they took you from him, Samuel.”

     “But that’s not my name.”

     “Yes, it is, Samuel. You must believe me.”

     This information boggled my mind. But, at the same time, it provided me with answers to the questions that have plagued me for as long as I can remember. With thoughts of my twin sister racing through my mind, I left the church, pulled my cell phone from my pocket, and called the number Melanie had given me. 

 

Copyright © 2014 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.

Recapturing a lost past can be a difficult, if not impossible, thing to do. But it doesn’t stop us from believing it can happen.

Then one evening, out of nowhere, the unexpected occurs. And our heart and mind are opened by . . .

The Enlightenment Of The Evening

     The street was quiet, except for the thumping sounds of the taxicab’s tires rolling over the cobblestone road. As the cab neared the Majestic Hotel, the young woman riding in the back seat noticed a tall, balding, older gentleman, dressed in a gray suit, white shirt, and blue striped tie, standing in front of the main entrance doors. His elegance captivated her. Something about him seemed familiar. Her heart fluttered with excitement, as she pictured herself standing beside him.

     “Driver, please stop at the corner and let me out,” she requested. As the cab slowed, she tried to muster up the courage she would need to meet the fashionable man who stood staring into the darkness of the night. The driver pulled over to the curb. She paid her fare indicated on the meter, opened the door, got out, and walked in the direction of the hotel.

     The starlit sky intrigued the man, who gazed up at it, seemingly searching for something . . . possibly answers to questions flowing through his mind. The youthful doorman approached this aristocratic looking chap and asked, “May I be of assistance? You appear to be lost.”

     “Lost? I hadn’t thought of it that way. But maybe I am. However, I don’t know how you might assist me. I’ve been standing here observing the greatness of the universe and contemplating my place in it. At times, I wonder if I’m meant to wander through the rest of my life without a purpose or meaning. So young man, I am in awe at how perceptive you are.”

     The young man stood there speechless. He’d asked a simple question that elicited an answer far more complex than he could’ve anticipated. And now, he had no idea how to reply. Tempted to walk away, he instead, spoke in words he pulled out of nowhere, “You appear to be an accomplished man whose purpose in life must’ve impacted many in very important ways.”

     “Well, that is what I’d hoped to accomplish in my professional life, before I retired. But I’m not sure I reached the goals I set for myself. As a banking consultant, I helped many people to open profitable and successful businesses. But I’ve not always been honest and this concerns me. And my personal life has been less successful than I’d believed it would be. I stand alone in the night searching for answers that I pray will fall from the sky.”

     The woman, taking slow and deliberate steps toward her destination, thought only about the man who’d aroused a desire in her for the closeness she’d not felt for more than six years. The car accident that had left her a widow had destroyed her passion for life and, in particular, men. But there was something about this stranger in the night that ignited her need for attachment to someone—a need she believed had been taken from her, not once, but twice in her life.

     The gentleman thanked the doorman for going far beyond his responsibilities to help a patron of the hotel. “You are a fine, caring young man, with what would appear to be a wonderful future. It would be my pleasure to share my opinions with your employer. Now, please go. There surely are others in need of your kindness and thoughtfulness.”

     As the young man turned away and proceeded toward a vehicle dropping off new hotel guests, he found himself face to face with the young woman. He eyed her with concern, for something didn’t seem right. She was sad and appeared lost in a way similar to that of the gentleman he’d just spoken with. “Madam, can I help you?” he queried. “You seem lost.”

     “Lost? I hadn’t thought of it that way. But maybe I am. However, I do know how you might help me. I’ve come in search of a gentleman I saw standing in front of the hotel—a very stylish looking older man. He seemed to be gazing at the stars. Yet I don’t see him now. I don’t know why, but I have an urge to meet him. I thought the feelings evoked in me were ones of attraction, but now I’m not sure.”

     The young man stood perplexed. Why share your intimate feelings with me? he thought. He bowed his head and contemplated whether or not he should try to unite the two people who’d entered his life on this beautiful starry night. Why, yes, he concluded. It was his purpose. This was why he’d been placed on earth—to aid those lost souls in search of one another.

     “Madam, please wait here. Don’t go anywhere. I’m sure I can find the man you’ve described.” He turned and rushed in the direction of the gentleman he’d encountered, but he was nowhere in sight. Confused, he raced into the hotel lobby, filled with people, but not the chap he needed to locate. “God, please light my path, so I may accomplish my mission,” he whispered. Silence fell upon the lobby and the crowd parted, just as the Red Sea had in ancient times, and the angelic young man marveled at what he saw staring out a side lobby window—the noble older man.

     He moved toward him and gently took his arm and, without words being spoken, led the man out into the starlit night. The refined older man felt himself being nudged in a direction he wanted to go, but didn’t know why. The young woman turned toward a flicker of light she thought she saw. And there was the man she’d dreamed of. The one she thought she’d never find. The one who would make her life complete. He stood before her and took her hand in his. Then he looked into her eyes and whispered, “Janie, it is you, isn’t it?”

     “Yes, Daddy,” she replied.

Copyright © 2017 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.

Middle school can be exhausting. You try to stay focused, but it can be very difficult to do so.

Teachers can be so controlling. But just when you think you're going to get caught drifting off into space, something comes out of nowhere to save the day. Such is the case in . . .

Morgan

     Morgan first came into my life in the eighth grade at Valley Gorge Middle School in the San Fernando Valley in Southern California. She was a wild sort, bold and outgoing. Her hair, stuck up like a porcupine’s quills, swept in all directions and depicted a free and natural spirit. Her impish smile made a statement to her public that she controlled her own destiny. Until then, I hadn’t noticed girls much. They didn’t bother me, and I steered clear of them. 

     I remember the day well. Dark clouds draped the horizon. The dreariness blanketed my world. I sat at my desk, a bit forlorn and unfocused, my attention everywhere else but English class. Then a piercing voice interrupted my quiet trance. “Mr. Blake,” the voice echoed against the walls of the classroom. “Have you been listening to what I’ve been saying?” 

     “Huh, uh, yes ma’am,” I stuttered. I hadn’t, but it would’ve been bad form to admit it.

     Someone must’ve been looking out for me that day. For as Mrs. Kincaid began to ask me the fateful question, the one I wouldn’t be able to answer, a loud crash rumbled through the room. Startled, both my interrogator and I whirled around to assess the situation.

     The door had swung open wide, slamming into the wall, and then returned to its resting place with a loud thump. In its wake appeared a creature whose spiky, jet-black hair framed a devilish grin. Her deep, brown eyes surveyed the room and focused on each puzzled face peering at her. The quiet following her stormy entrance didn’t last for long. 

     “What are you jerks lookin’ at?” she snapped. “Ain’t you ever seen a girl?”

     Clad in a black leather jacket and tight black jeans, Morgan was a sight to behold. She swaggered to the center of the room, stood in front of Mrs. Kincaid, and stared straight into her eyes. 

     “Where’s my seat?” she blurted. 

     Not losing her composure, Mrs. Kincaid locked eyes with her. “Who are you, dear?” she asked in her usual, polite manner.

     Morgan snarled, “Morgan Chase, your majesty.”  

     Not missing a beat, Mrs. Kincaid pointed to an empty seat in the rear of the room. Morgan glared at the designated spot for a moment and then, with indignation, stated, “I don’t like that one.” 

     Not one for confrontation, Mrs. Kincaid restrained herself and replied, “I’m sorry my dear, but that is the one you must take.” 

     Deciding this was not the time for a fight, Morgan sauntered over to her throne, sat down, leaned back, and scowled at Mrs. Kincaid in defiance. Mrs. Kincaid, savoring her victory, continued with the day’s lesson. 

     My eyes fixed on Morgan. Something about her intrigued me. However, what it was would not be revealed until twenty years later.

     Morgan and I had little to do with each other during the school year. As I muddled along, adrift in a sea of uncertainty about life, Morgan, in her usual brash manner, struck fear into the hearts and minds of those around her. Just after the end of the year, Morgan disappeared from my life, “forever.”

     As the years passed, my fate took one curious turn after another. The scrawny, somewhat puny, fourteen-year-old boy somehow managed to turn into quite a respectable adult man of thirty-four. 

     Married twice, but now divorced, I had worked hard to put my life in order. Dropping in and out of three colleges, at last I reached the peak of my academic mountain and received a “Bachelor of Arts Degree in English Literature.”

     Not knowing what to do with the degree, I wandered through the world of freelance writing, submitting one mundane story after another to a myriad of obscure publications. Then, as destiny would have it, a chronic teacher shortage led me to obtain my teaching credential and brought me back to the world from which I’d escaped some twenty years earlier. Now in the front of the room, rather than the back, I found myself teaching English to eighth graders at Hamilton Middle School in a suburb of Sacramento. Mrs. Kincaid would have been amazed. However, as I soon discovered, my life would not remain uncomplicated.

     This particular Thursday morning, the alarm clock made its usual annoying buzzing sound. Still groggy, I hit the “SNOOZE” button and fell back to sleep. When I awoke and gazed at the clock, I became aware I’d overslept and would be late for class, if I didn’t get my butt in gear. 

     All seemed to be going well until I reached my aged Chevy Camaro, parked in the carport outside my townhouse. In my rush to get to school on time, I failed to gauge the distance between my chariot and the pole supporting the carport. Hearing a terrible crunching sound, I realized I’d caught the car’s bumper on the carport’s left pole. My car let out an agonizing squeal that sent chills up my spine. 

     “Crap,” I exclaimed, in a quite undignified manner. “What do I do now?”

     Somehow, I managed to regain my composure. Although my bumper had been mangled into a curious s-shape, the pole came away unscathed. With nothing to report to another soul, at least for the moment, I continued on my way.

     During my drive, I contemplated my lessons for the day. I had trouble keeping my mind on track. The accident, which occurred because of my inept ability to negotiate the carport back-out maneuver, kept popping back into my head. However, I succeeded in driving the eight miles to campus without any further mishaps. 

     As I pulled into my designated parking space at school, I brought the car to an abrupt halt, for I didn’t have much time to get to class. Grabbing my lesson plans from the passenger seat, I emerged from the car, slammed the door, and bounded through the main entrance of the building. I reached my classroom, as the clanging of the bell rang in the new school day.

     I rushed to my desk at the front of the room, deposited my lesson plans on top of it, and tried to catch my breath. At that moment, a loud crash caused me to whirl in the direction of the classroom door. There, in its threshold, stood a creature whose spiky, jet-black hair framed a devilish grin. The door slammed behind her as she entered the room. Before any words could be uttered, the door opened again, revealing a beautiful woman with a soft, yet impish smile.

     Clad in a red, tailored business suit, this vision of loveliness possessed my every thought. She moved toward the young girl. The smile disappeared from her face. In a controlled, yet commanding manner, she grasped the child by the arm and spun her toward her. “Megan,” she proclaimed, “I told you to wait for me.”

     “But I wanted to get to class on time,” Megan exclaimed in defiance.

     The alluring woman ignored the girl’s obstinate remark and turned toward me. “I’m so sorry for my daughter’s rude behavior. Won’t you please forgive her?”

     No words came out of my mouth. I stood there stunned by the woman’s beauty and captivated by her elegance. Then a strange feeling came over me. I felt we had met before.

     As the past and present collided, our eyes engaged, and we knew in our hearts this would be the beginning of a lasting relationship. Eight months later, Morgan and I were married.

Copyright © 2009 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.

Note: The two poems included in this post are acrostic poems. An acrostic poem is a type of poetry where the first, last, or other letters in a line spell out a particular word or phrase. Both the end of the title and the completion of the last line of each of the poems in this post can be read vertically down the left side of the page.

The loss of a loved one can happen unexpectedly. So, how do you cope?

At some point in time, you have to move on. However, this may not be easy to do. But then the unexpected occurs again, as is seen in . . .

I Did Not Believe It Could Happen, But . . .

One night in early May, I sat on the couch thinking about what life would 

     be like if my husband, David, had not died in our car accident two   
     years ago.

Nobody would have predicted either one of us could have survived when the  
     Ford Explorer crossed the center divide and hit us head on.

Each of us was wearing a seatbelt, but as David lurched forward, the belt    
     snapped and wrapped around his neck, choking him to death.

Death changed my life in ways I had not expected, for I began to gain          
     confidence in myself and became stronger without David in the picture.

A great husband, lover, and friend, he also was a control freak, who paid all    
     the bills, invested our money, and made most of our major decisions.

Yet I loved him with all my heart and his loss drove me to distraction at        
     times, but also caused me to go back to college to finish the degree I had 
     put aside to get married.

Young, only thirty-three when I lost him, and without children, I had a long life 
     ahead of me, but how would I handle it alone?

Oh, I thought about trying to meet someone else, but it didn’t seem right to      
     be looking for a “David replacement,” at least not yet.

Under an overcast sky, I made my way through school, began to        
     understand my finances, and became involved in a women’s bridge club.

Working as a secretary in a local real estate agency, I kept to myself, did my  
     job, and left immediately when the clock struck five.

At night, I dabbled in the online classes I had enrolled in to finish my degree, 
     sat on the couch watching TV, and downed bucket after bucket of sweet 
     popcorn.

Life was full, but empty at the same time, and I had no clue how to live it      
     otherwise.

Keeping to myself had become a shield against an outside world that          
     sometimes frightened me, and meeting another man was out of the  
     question.

Each day I drifted more and more into my private space and, although        
     together with others at the office, I remained isolated and alone.

David, how could you do this to me? Why was I chosen to live and you to    
     die? Or maybe we both died that day on the freeway.

In my deepest moments of grief, I contemplated suicide, but deep down I     
     knew I did not want to take my own life.

No, that was not a viable alternative. But if not that, then what?

Tortured by the thought of spending the rest of my life alone, I tried to figure    
     out how to expose myself to the world outside.

One door had closed, but now I was ready to open another. Yet every time      
      I reached for the handle, I froze and could not do it.

Maybe I was meant to be alone. Could God have taken David from me to    
     punish me for the sins of my past?

Yes, that had to be it. But I knew in my heart, it was not. I was making          
     excuses for my weaknesses I had not been able to overcome.

Late in the day on Saturday, as I sat in my plush, brown recliner reading a       
     novel about an eighteenth century love affair, the doorbell rang.

I walked to the door and opened it. Standing before me was tall gentleman      
     with a beautiful smile on his face.

For a moment, I was caught off guard, but in his soft, soothing voice, he     
     introduced himself as my new neighbor.

Everything glowed. Warmth permeated my soul. I did not believe it could      
     happen, but . . .

Copyright © 2019 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.

At times, achieving what we are capable of becoming can be an up hill battle. Yet it is one in which we must engage.

We must believe in ourselves. And, hopefully, we can enlist the support of others. This is the goal you will discover in . . .

If You Would . . .

Jumping out of bed that morning, I knew I had to do something—something    
     extraordinary.

Unless I acted now, I might never get another chance to be what I thought I     
     could be.

So I washed up, slipped into my gray striped suit, white shirt, and black tie   
     and headed toward the garage.

The shiny black BMW I bought with the money I inherited from my       
     grandfather reflected my image back at me.

But it did not look like the man I wished to be—one strong and confident in      
     facing the future.

Entering the car, I pressed the garage door button, buckled my seatbelt, and 
     prepared for a journey that both excited and frightened me.

Looking in the mirror, I again saw the likeness I did not want to see—one of     
     a young man going nowhere in life.

I could not accept this, as I had more to offer then just sitting back and         
     letting the days fly by without making something of myself.

Empowered by the thought of changing my life and doing something of       
     which I could be proud, I smiled.

Venturing into the unknown would not be an easy task, but I felt in my heart     
     I had the strength to do what needed to be done.

Either I do it now, or I might lose the opportunity to achieve in life what I        
     knew I could accomplish.

I am strong, although I had not always demonstrated this to myself or to      
     others out of fear of failure.

Not wanting to continue down this dark, winding road going nowhere, I        
     needed to change direction.

My mind made up, I now believed I was ready to face a new day and prove     
     to myself and others, I could be a success.

Entering the conference room where my interview would take place, I          
     muttered to myself, “I am your man, if you would . . .”

Copyright © 2019 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.