1 comments/ 3325 views/ 1 favorites Breakfast with Billie Holiday Ch. 01 By: Heathen Hemmingway 'All of me Why not take all of me Can't you see I'm no good without you Take my lips I want to loose them Take my arms I'll never use them Your goodbye Left me with eyes that cry How can I go on dear without you You took the part That once was my heart So why not take all of me' Chapter 1 My name is Shine, and today I'm celebrating my sixtieth birthday. Every year on the thirteenth of December I celebrate the same way. I watch the sun come up with a cup of coffee in my hand, and I watch it go back down with another cup of coffee. Normally I don't drink coffee late in the day, but on my birthday I make an exception. My house faces the bay, so every morning and evening I enjoy the sun painting the water in a shifting rainbow of golds, reds and blues. A wide stretch of light brown sand separates the edge of my property from the water, and often times I sit back and enjoy watching the people go by. Every now and then a pretty gal in a skimpy bikini will go walking by, which is always nice to watch as she jiggles and bounces her way along (after all I am older but I'm not dead), but for me the thing I enjoy the most is watching the children at play. The kids dart about the waterfront with their brightly colored plastic buckets and shovels, their parents trying in vain to keep up with their excited children. Despite age, gender or race, most kids do pretty much the same thing - attacking the sand as if the fate of the world depends on constructing their grand sand castle in the nick of time. I don't have any children of my own, but I came as close as a man can get, twice. I suppose logic dictates that this is why I enjoy watching the children play as much as I do, although I imagine that there's more to it than that. The truth is, I can't remember a single moment of my own childhood. Not one brief second of it, despite years of trying. Other memories, however, are not so easy to shake. I've been wrestling with a memory all day, come to think of it. I've tried to distract myself but so far it hasn't worked. I spent an hour or so fishing off the pier. I caught two nice ones. They're in the refrigerator right now, cleaned and wrapped in butcher paper until I decide I'm ready to eat. My life is mostly routine and regimented, except for my appetite. In my younger years I always had the appetite of a bear; I could eat enough for two grown men and wouldn't gain an ounce of weight. I guess my metabolism or whatnot was high enough to burn it all off, plus working eighty and ninety hours a week had to contribute as well, I suppose. Now I eat much less and much less often. Just one of the many small changes that come with age, I believe. I walked around my property for about an hour this morning, picking up a few twigs and sticks here and there and putting them in the garbage bin. I pulled the dead weeds out of the drive until my knees got to aching, and then came back inside. I played chess against myself for another two hours. Lucky me, I won both games. Despite the best of intentions, my life has unwittingly settled into a predictable routine. One of my favorite routines is having breakfast with Billie Holiday, after watching the sun come up with the customary cup of coffee. I put my favorite Billie Holiday cassette in the little stereo mounted under my kitchen cabinet, and as I make my breakfast that sultry, strong, velvety voice of hers floats through the air. It is a ritual I have observed for years now, only broken by a rare and unexpected circumstance. Something about her voice speaks to me, as if we share the same pain in some way. As the sound of her singing echoes through the house, I often find myself lost in a rare moment when nothing plague me. There is her muscular feminine voice, and nothing else. 'You must remember this A kiss is still a kiss A sigh is just a sigh The fundamental things apply As time goes by And when two lovers woo They still say I love you On that you can rely No matter what the future brings As time goes by' The memory I have been trying so hard to put away today has been popping up around every corner, and in my time I have learned that memories tend to be that way for a reason. I met a young woman named Selena ten years ago today, and all day long she has been on my mind. Truth be known she's on my mind most every day. Today in particular I just can't shake her ghost, so I guess it's best just to let the memory run its course. I was madly in love with her, but now she's dead and gone. Her loss in my life is a pain I can't quite describe, but I'm not certain what pains me more; the fact that she's gone or the fact that I never got to say goodbye. I'm what you would call a voluntary loner. I like people, don't get me wrong. I just like peace and quiet even more. The folks in town started calling me Shine a long damned time ago, and the name just stuck to me like glue. Every now and then I'll be in the grocery store or the post office and some wide eyed kid will come running up to me and call me 'Mister Shine'. I get a real kick out of that. I love kids. Nothing's better than a houseful of bright eyed kids and a fat happy baby in a basinet. I got the nickname Shine because I make wind chimes in my spare time. I make all kinds, but my favorites are ones I make with little silver bells. And all of the wind chimes are silver, as well. Something about the color calms me; it has a clarity and a simple nature about it that I like. I think it's a peaceful color, if there were ever such a thing. I made my first set shortly after I moved here. It's primitive by comparison to the ones I make these days, but it's still my favorite by a long shot. I have a sun room on the side of my house, and it has big picture windows all down the length of it. When I finish a set of wind chimes I hang them in the windows. The sun catches on the silver and you can see the reflection from a long ways off. I have had folks who live on the other side of the water tell me that they can see the shine coming off of those wind chimes clear across the bay on a clear morning. Sometimes I'll draw the shades when there's a lot of boat traffic on the water, so as not to distract any boaters out on the water with the bright reflection. I was taught the merits of 'Love Thy Neighbor' a long time ago, and I live by those words still today. And sometimes, loving thy neighbor takes a hell of a lot of effort, you see. At times I believe I am the only person who even remembers those words anymore. I have been retired from the railroad for over twelve years now, and making the wind chimes is a hobby I seemed to settle into naturally. I spent almost thirty years repairing, fabricating, patching and rigging all manner of mechanical equipment to work, often under the worst of conditions with the least of equipment and supplies. Over the years I developed the unnatural ability to fix just about anything mechanical with what I have on hand, whatever it may be. Like any self-respecting tinkerer, I try to keep a basic lot of miscellaneous 'stuff' with me wherever I may go, just in case the need arises to fix something. One of my greatest joys in life could also be considered the most simple; I love to fix things, which falls right in line with another great source of content for me. I love to help people. I claim to sell the damned things, but the truth is I give more away than I sell. All of them are potentially for sale, except for the first one I made. Money can't buy that one. Every now and then a passerby will be walking along the waterfront will see the reflection from all those silver bells and stop by to check it out, sometimes mistaking my home for one of those waterfront shops that sit not too far South down the beach. My property is always neatly kept, so I consider it to be both a compliment and an honest mistake. If they are visitors from out of town and are nice, I usually end up giving them a wind chime and shoot the breeze with them a bit. I've met alot of nice folks that way. If they're new folks to town I do the same. I guess I could make a killing selling the things. I'm not hurting for money so I see no need in being greedy. I think even the ugliest, meanest cuss in the world deserves something pretty in his life. However, if someone stops by to ask about the wind chimes and they are the least bit rude, most times I tell them that they are not for sale, or I quote them such an astronomical price that they stomp away angry. I have little patience for rude people, you see. It takes little to no effort to show some manners, I believe. There is a long, narrow porch on the front of my house. It has a tin roof with a metal rail that runs under the length of the gutters. I used to hang the wind chimes from there, until a deputy sheriff paid me a visit one day. He told me the glare coming off all those little bells had damn near blinded him. He was an older fella so I doubted he was stopping by just to give me a hard time. After he left I walked out to the road and looked back toward my house. Sure enough, the reflection coming off all those bells in the noontime sun was enough to blind me. I moved them all to the sun room. Turns out it was a good idea for a number of reasons. Silver tarnishes real fast when it's exposed to the elements. They stay shiny a hell of alot longer inside. One thing that a tinkerer like myself needs to thrive, of course, is something to tinker on. As much as it pains to think of it, I am also a widower, too. Today the memory of Selena and my wife before her are both haunting me, a memory waiting around every corner, manifesting itself in just about everything I see. To Be Continued Breakfast with Billie Holiday Ch. 02 'Gloomy is Sunday, With shadows I spend it all My heart and I Have decided to end it all Soon there'll be candles And prayers that are said I know Let them not weep Let them know that I'm glad to go Death is no dream For in death I'm caressin' you With the last breath of my soul I'll be blessin' you' * My wife Virginia was the first true love of my life, and I loved her with a ferocity and dedication that I didn't know I was capable of until she came along and made me a hopeless captive to her many charms, with a careless ease and grace. She knew I was crazy in love with her, and she never made me regret it for a single moment. Losing her was such a blow that I found myself changed for the rest of my life. She passed away weeks after her thirtieth birthday. She was slender and petite, a girl who blossomed into womanhood to develop a natural dancer's physique that so many women would beg for. Her hair was a soft strawberry blonde that always left me aching to touch it, and her eyes were a steely slate-blue. She was the true center of my universe, the greatest and grandest thing that life had ever given me. She was beautiful in so many unique and peculiar ways. Of all of her natural feminine charms, her stomach held the most fascination for me, a perfectly smooth expanse of soft skin with a firm musculature just underneath. I never once saw her do a sit-up or any other manner of exercise, she was simply blessed with a beautiful tummy. I spent many nights with my head resting on her stomach after a lively bout of lovemaking, feeling the strong pull and draw of her breath. It was a warm cradle for me to rest, a place where I found the most peaceful sleep of my life. She always indulged me, flattered I suppose. I never told her, but kissing her navel was as exciting to me as kissing her most intimate places. She was a true Southern Belle and the love of my life. She had many habits and pastimes, all of which fascinated me to no end, but her favorite recreation was collecting silver. She would go on day-long expeditions to bring one home a single piece of silver, something precious and rare that had a history to it that appealed to her inquisitive nature. She was fiercely intelligent woman who found great pleasure in the simplest of things. I imagine that is why she was with me. I remember while on vacation In Charleston, she spent an entire day in the markets, tolerating the shoulder-to shoulder tourists and stifling heat to emerge victorious with a purple fabric pouch that was home to a gleaming silver rice spoon, a rather historic item that was reminiscent of Charleston itself. It always gave me great pride to see her with her prize; it reminded me of why I loved her so. We both came from large families with plenty of children always around, and early on we both knew that we wanted to have children, or at least one child. Of all the many things star-crossed lovers discuss in the quiet hours of the night, we talked about having our own children the most. We pondered who they would resemble and whose mannerisms they would adopt. Having kids became a dream that we both shared, but we both agreed that we were in no rush; when the time was right it would happen. I proposed to her on a rainy Christmas night, and we were married on Valentine's Day the next year. Her ring was made of silver, of course, with a brilliant round diamond sitting proudly atop the band. It cost me roughly four months worth of savings, but from the moment I saw it I knew she would dearly love it. The ring was dearly expensive, yes, but when I thought of seeing her eyes upon giving it to her, I may have as well been paying in pennies. I didn't work hard my entire life to stress over being able to buy what I want. And for Virginia, anything was worth the asking price. Since Virginia collected silver I decided to buy her a special gift for the day we were to bring our new baby home. I spent an entire day in the markets, mucking around until I came across my prize. I was about to resign myself to failure when I saw it, hanging there like a beacon lit for wayward travelers. It was a mobile for a baby's crib, draped with delicate silver chains and bells. In the center was a big silver sun with a heart-shaped cutout in the center. It hung from a thin silver chain with a small hook on the end. It was just like her, delicate and pretty. I snuck it home while she was away, wrapping it gingerly in a brown paper bag and hiding it in old green ammo can. I have probably a dozen of the things; I use them for storing all manner of odds and ends. In the months that followed, Virginia and I spent the greater part of our energy and time trying to conceive, and it was a wonderful time filled with many sticky, passionate nights and countless impulsive moments. After almost two months passed with no results, we told ourselves that we were doing the one thing we were determined not to; we were rushing it. So we resolved to approach lovemaking as we did before we decided it was time for her to be pregnant, which was to be intimate at every given opportunity, but to never schedule it or make otherwise unordinary changes to our lives. Without realizing it, we had become preoccupied with having a child, and the thought of it consumed our lives in a way. After the third and then the fourth month passed, I could see a definite sense of gloom in her beautiful slate-blue eyes, and seeing her live with the anguish made my heart sink. We sat down after dinner one night and discussed our options, and we mutually agreed that our best option would be to see a fertility expert. "We're not done yet, sweetheart." I told her."Lots of couples go through this, and I believe we're going to be just fine." "I believe you." She told me, but there were tears welling up in her eyes, and seeing Virginia cry tickled an instinct deep inside me that made me either want to fix the thing that was wrong enough to make her cry, or to tear the bastard to shreds that was foolish enough to make her cry. Only this time it wasn't some thing or some person, it was the damnable unique ache that only a woman can feel when she wants so badly to have a child, but lives with the lingering fear that she cannot. In the weeks that followed, she seemed to wither and shrink with each trip to the fertility clinic, and that pained look in her eyes had almost driven me into a panicked rage at times. I wanted our child for myself and the both of us, but I must admit that I lived with a stubborn determination that if my Virginia wanted anything, anything, by damn she was going to have it. She was a genuine soul who rarely asked anything of me that I didn't give to her freely; therefore when she did want something, she got it. I wanted for her to have her child, to live in that moment that I knew she dreamed of. I never liked the idea of keeping secrets from her. It's just not who I am. I did, however, make one exception. As I was driving home from the hardware store one afternoon I noticed a sign sitting high off of the shoulder of the road. It had a picture of a woman holding a newborn swaddled in a pink blanket, a blissful smile on her face as she looked down at the peaceful, sleeping baby in her arms. 'Is adoption right for you?' The sign read, with a phone number and address below the picture. Without realizing what I was doing, I stabbed the brakes hard, turned the wheel quickly to the right and spun around, heading back into town. Less than fifteen minutes later I was standing in front of the adoption clinic, a small part of wondering just what in hell I was doing. I opened the door and nervously stepped inside. After a short wait I found myself sitting in front of a huge oak desk, speaking to a short, slender lady with mousy brown hair. She was instantly likeable, a woman who smiled gently and looked at me with compassion and agreement. Most importantly, I believed that she was a woman who Virginia would like. I thanked her for seeing me on such short notice, and as I left I formulated a plan. If we weren't able to conceive within the next six weeks, we would return and discuss adopting a child. I simply would not allow myself the thought of denying Virginia a child, I could not fail her. When I arrived home, Virginia met me at the door. It was not all too uncommon for her, and truthfully it was one of the many small things I loved about her, being greeted by her after a long and hard day at the train yards. She stood there with the screened door open for me, and as our eyes met I could see something was different about her. That fatigued look of apprehension mixed with fear was gone, but it was replaced with something I couldn't quite describe. Before I could say a word she threw her arms around me and hugged me tightly. I wrapped my arms around her, and she was crying on my shoulder. "Baby what is it?" I asked, half afraid of what she might say. "I'm pregnant." She whispered, and then began to cry even more. To Be Continued Breakfast with Billie Holiday Ch. 03 To the reader, This chapter was finished over a year ago, but just before I finished it I decided that I needed some time apart from it. In my life I have been unfortunate enough to lose many people that I dearly care for, and not too long ago someone very close to me passed away due to an aggressive cancer. Honestly, I just needed some to put a little distance between myself and this chapter because it hit too close to home. I hate giving advice, but I will tell you that if a loved one has cancer, you should spend as much time with them as you can. Pride and past be damned, be there for them as much as you can. Heathen ~ 'A sailboat in the moonlight And you Wouldn't that be heaven A heaven just for two A soft breeze on a June night and you What a perfect setting For letting dreams come true A chance to sail away To Sweetheart Bay Beneath the stars that shine A chance to drift For you to lift Your tender lips to mine Some things dear That I long for are few Just give me a sailboat in the moonlight and you' Chapter 3 I stood there baffled for a moment, as if the words didn't make sense to me. She took me by the hand and led me inside, taking me to the bathroom in our master bedroom. There were three pregnancy tests sitting neatly atop the toilet tank. She picked the first one up and held it high for me to see. There was a pink plus in the small white rectangle at the top. "A pink plus means positive." She said curtly, setting the plastic wand aside and picking up the next. There were two red bands at the top of the second pregnancy test. "This one uses stripes, two for pregnant and one for not pregnant." And then lastly she set the second pregnancy test down and picked up the third. There was a green circle at the top. "And this one has a green circle for pregnant and a red circle for not pregnant." "All three are positive." Was all I could think to say, still in disbelief. "Yes they are." She said, and throttled me with a strong hug. "I'm going to the doctor to confirm tomorrow morning, and you're coming with me." "Of course I am." I responded with a smile. "Of course I am." It was in the weeks and months that followed that I learned many lessons about time. Time is an eccentric creature that has developed the keen ability to fool you with age. In the days that followed her pregnancy, time suddenly took on an elastic quality, days melting into minutes as we hurried about making arrangements. Entire weeks were lost to my memory as we rushed to take care of every conceivable detail and need, but at the same time there are moments that stand out in striking clarity to me; sitting on the sofa watching a movie, discussing baby names. 'Elise.' She said, her voice a velvety sigh. 'Her name's going to be Elise.' She was lying with her head in my lap while I tolerated one of many sappy 'chick flicks' that she loved so dearly. As a matter of fact, there is a memory hidden within that memory itself; long ago Virginia mused that if I tolerate her dreadfully predictable romance movies, I must indeed truly love her to endure such torture. She was wearing a snug fitting blouse that night, and I noticed for the first time that her breasts were getting bigger. I found myself instantly aroused as I looked down at her generous cleavage spilling over her top. She felt me growing hard and before either one of us realized it, she was sitting atop me and her blouse was flying across the room. One of the many things I discovered about life during my time with Virginia was the joy of pregnant sex, which was quite wonderful. She always had a healthy appetite for sex, but in the days and weeks that followed, her sex drive turned into a ravenous hellion that tested the limits of my endurance. The slightest touch resulted in her cornering me in the kitchen or the bathroom, sliding down to her knees like a perverse siren, unzipping my pants and pulling me along helplessly toward the bed by my pride. As fate would have it, though, our bliss was soon to be over. Late one night well into her second trimester, I was torn from a careless sleep by the sound of Virginia crying aloud. I fumbled across our dark bedroom and slapped at the light switch, only to a see a scene so disturbing that it is still vivid in my memory to this day. She was lying there in a tangled bunch of knotted sheets, her hands clutched between her legs and writhing in pain. The sheets were stained a sickening shade of angry red. 'Oh no, she's had a miscarriage' I thought to myself, although I didn't dare let myself say it out loud. She let out a long, wailing cry that still haunts me now, and then she held a clutched hand up in front of her. Her fist was dark red, like an image from a militiaman's anti-government poster. I knew as well, though, she had to be thinking the same thing. I am a firm believer that there are things in life that every person has to accept, as they immovable and unable to be changed. One of those things for me was realizing early on into our relationship that Virginia was a deeply intelligent woman, and I knew my intelligence would never match her own. She was a whip-smart gal, and that was all there was to it. I accepted and respected, often benefitting from her judgment. I accepted that no matter how quick on the draw I might be, she would always be two steps ahead. It was just in her nature to be keen. "I'm losing the baby!" She heaved, barely able to speak. "No you're not Honey." I told her, knowing I might be lying to her but feeling a need to say it just the same. "No we're not." Hours later I was sitting in the lobby of the hospital, jumping at every sound. Each time a door opened I expected to see some atypical senior doctor type come walking out with a clipboard and a wary look on his face. Instead I was simply forced to wait. And wait. After what seemed like sixteen centuries, a sheepish looking nurse found me in the hallway and ushered me back into the intensive care unit to Virginia's room. The doctor was waiting there for me, and to my dismay he looked just as I expected he would. When the nurse left the doctor wasted no time. For that I was grateful, although there was a definite sting that I felt when he described her condition in such cold, clinical terms. It wasn't that his bedside manner was bad; he was a very likeable fellow. It was just that everything he was telling me was the worst case scenario. One thing I must say that I was grateful for, though, was that he didn't give me any false hope. He had a large envelope with him, one so big that it could hold something the size of a small poster. He took several slides from it and hung them on an eye-level lighted board. When he snapped the light switch on, the bright white illuminated a terrible image, even to my untrained eyes. The slides looked like an angry Rorschach in bright white and varying shades of black. There was a large tumor just above her right ovary and three smaller growths clustered together around the left. Another amorphous mass was sitting at the base of her spine. I stood there, reeling on my feet a little bit as he described her diagnosis. Some of his words were lost to me, while others seemed to float through the air and settle into my brain like some hellish wind-born poison. 'Ruptured cysts', 'Epithelial' and 'carcinoma' crept into my ears and tickled me with a childish horror that I couldn't escape. 'Metastasis' and 'malignant' reverberated in my mind, like a damning echo that wouldn't die away. I felt as if all of the warmth in my body had left me, and thought to myself 'It can't get any worse.' "This area is of particular concern." The doctor said, and there was a worry in his voice that I could detect despite his perfectly clinical tone. He placed another slide on the board, one that showed an enlarged image of the fetus. I hate to think of myself saying the word. Yes it was a fetus, but it was not just a fetus, it was our child. It was our baby, and most importantly it was the child that Virginia had lived for, for so long. It was the one thing I wanted to give her more than anything in the world. He pointed out a mass of grayish black at the base of the baby's neck. From the center of the mass a tentacle-like gray strand stretched down onto the spine, like a sinister blind worm creeping its way along the baby's back. "Mr. Forehand I have to be honest with you. This is not good." He said, and then the world turned gray before my eyes. The next thing I knew, I was looking up at the ceiling, trying to figure out just exactly what the hell had happened. I passed out and fell flat on my back. I would have never thought that the spoken word could have such an effect on me, but upon hearing of just how sick my beloved Virginia was, the grief and worry got the better of me. In the weeks that followed, time took on that surreal elastic quality again, only it was the polar opposite of the careless and hopeful bliss we lived with at first. There were days that seemed to be a blur of gray linoleum floors and sterile white walls, punctuated by slow-motion moments where I found myself sitting beside her hospital bed holding her hand as she cried. Weeks were lost in a haze, yet brief moments would jump out to startle me like a shriek in a haunted house. I had days where I felt my resolve was good and I honestly believed that I was strong enough to carry Virginia through it all, and just when I convinced myself that my strength wasn't a bastard child of foolish hope, time would slow to a crawl again and we would be faced with yet another crushing blow. Sickly words surrounded me and touched my heart with an icy finger, making it impossible to sleep or stop worrying. 'it has spread to the lymph nodes' they whispered to me, merciless. Cold and alien words like 'malignant fetal musculoskeletal sarcoma' drifted in and out of my consciousness while I sat in waiting room after waiting room, lobby after lobby over what seemed like a span of a thousand years. Watching her waste away was what hurt me the most. I knew I had reached a point where I could no longer hide my fear, and she could see it in my eyes. I considered myself to be a wily and tough person who could survive anything, but sitting there in yet another hospital room holding her withered hands while I told her one polite lie after another had reduced me to a sickened mess. Even at my best and strongest I could never lie to her, and she knew it. "We're going to lose the baby, aren't we?" She asked me, her voice barely a hush. "Yes. But I'm not going to lose you." I told her, hoping with all my heart that I was right. I can say with honesty that I haven't had many shameful moments in my life, but I must confess that for many days I lived with a damning hope that we would only lose the baby and not the both of them. I felt ashamed and embarrassed for secretly hoping for such a thing, but knowing that the baby was beyond saving , I had to cling to the thought of being able to save her at least. At the time I thought such a feeling was the worst thing I had ever lived to endure, and I would soon learn that I was wrong. Time took on another surreal leap and three weeks went by in a blistering flash. I felt a cold, wet prick at the nape of my neck that shook my senses into clarity, and I found myself standing in a cold drizzling rain as I watched two caskets being slowly lowered into the Earth, one large and one small. I remember people holding me, hands touching me and voices floating in and out of the gray cloud I was existing in, but most of what had happened was gone to me. She was gone, and Elise was gone with her. Six months passed by, and in that time I believe that I collapsed into myself in a way, living in an autonomous state of bare-essential existence. I couldn't recall the last time I had spoken to another person or interacted with anyone, but apparently I had at some point since there was still food in my refrigerator and gas in my car. One bright morning I found myself sitting in the sun room with a mug of coffee, the sun stabbing at my eyes painfully. The sunlight was striking and glinting off of the wind chimes hanging around me and it seemed impossible to escape. Something about it threw me into a childish fit of rage. I snatched them all down and stuffed them into an ammo can, slamming the lid like a jilted lover leaving someone behind. I sat there crying for a long time, crying until I felt I had cried all of my energy and life away. I had never felt so tired in my life, so completely defeated. I felt that I was broken. It would be weeks before I remembered seeing or speaking to another person, and quite frankly I was completely removed of any desire to see anyone. Dusk was settling and the sun was just below the water on the horizon, and there I was again, nursing a cup of coffee in the sun room. I heard a knock at my door, and immediately I had a strange notion; it sounded fearful, if there were such a thing. It sounded like the knock of someone who was terribly afraid to knock. For a moment I was uncertain I had heard anything at all; my mind had taken to playing cruel tricks on me, and then I heard the fearful knock again. "Goddammitall." I sighed and stood to answer the door. I had every intention of opening the door and barking "I don't have any wind chimes to sell." and closing the door before the person there could respond. Yet when I opened my door I found myself speechless for a moment. I had no desire to see another human being for the rest of my natural life, or at least I had convinced myself of that, yet standing there at my door was a young woman looking up at me with big brown eyes, full of fear and worry. At that moment I couldn't see anything else in the world but her eyes, and they were beautiful to me. To Be Continued