COME FLY WITH ME

THIS IS IN RESPONSE TO DENISE AT GIRLIEONTHEEDGE’S PROMPT WORD:  BUBBLE
SIX SENTENCES EXACTLY – NO MORE, NO LESS. PUNCTUATION BE DAMNED! FAULKNER WOULD DEFINITELY APPROVE.

My dearest Hope ~ How you continue to invade my thoughts in the stillness of the morning’s early hours; I awaken and for a moment I believe the dream to be true, the feel of your smooth yielding body next to mine, the tenderness of your kiss on my lips but when I reach out my arms, you are not there and a tear slowly emerges from the corner of my eye. 

Somehow I manage to get through the disorder that is my life but without you I am not truly alive – I merely exist; you asked so little of me and brought unimaginable joy to my lonely world for you were my princess and I took great pleasure dressing you in satin and lace, your shining blue eyes sparkling with excitement whenever I brought home a gift for you and you delighted in each present, whether a bottle of perfume or a book of poems which I would read to you every night. 

Yet, in all honesty, those steamy sensual sex games we played are what I miss the most for you were insatiable, your beautiful mouth smiling with desire, your lithe body as malleable and compliant as the branches of a willow tree; we fit together perfectly and those intimate times we shared together in our bed are etched in my mind forever. 

Leaving you in the morning to go to work was torture, especially that one morning when you looked so beautiful as you slept that I didn’t have the heart to wake you so instead I placed a single rose on your breast for you to discover when you awoke and I quietly closed the door behind me leaving you alone, my darling, to dream – a concept I no longer remember as dreadful nightmares constantly invade my sleep leaving me bereft; only the knowledge that you’d be there waiting for me when I returned was what got me through the day and I’d race home to see you, to embrace you, but that all ended one year ago when I found you lifeless on our bed.

Today I walked to the park and I when I remembered it was our anniversary, all the air left my body like a burst bubble leaving me feeling hollow inside; the children in the park were playing with kites and balloons, laughing with glee as the wind lifted their playthings higher and higher when suddenly one of the little girls cried out in dismay as the string escaped her hand and her balloon slowly floated out of sight, leaving the poor child inconsolable and I thought of you, calling for you to come back to me; that’s when I realized I had two choices: continue living the life of a lonely, broken man or to find someone to share my life – that, my darling Hope, is when I chose the latter for I truly believe you would want me to find happiness again, to fill this void in my wretched life. 

I slowly walked home, retrieved my mail and sat on the couch, dejected, when out of the corner of my eye I noticed the tip of a familiar publication – could it be possible on our anniversary – yes, it was the Johnson Premium Dolls catalog with a large banner advertising 40% off discontinued blow up sex dolls, so with trembling fingers I flipped through the pages until I found another you, my dearest Hope; overcome with joy, I placed my order immediately and tomorrow I will insert this letter into a balloon, inflate it and release it to reach you in heaven as a reminder to myself to never again buy you roses with piercing thorns ~ My love forever, Lawrence. 

NAR © 2023

THE EIGHTH OF DECEMBER

A tribute to John Lennon who was taken from us on this date in 1980.
Roughly two years ago I had the great pleasure and honor to narrate a few of my stories on the BBC Radio program “Upload”. I also submitted “The Eighth of December”, never expecting to receive an email from the program manager of the radio station asking me if I’d be willing to read my story and do a live interview. To us here in The States, The BBC is a pretty big deal so I was rather blown away and, despite my nerves, I agreed to the interview. The format of the radio station changed and “Upload” has since been replaced by another show; it’s now impossible to find my interview.
All I have is my 5-year-old story to share with you.
Every word is true.
Here is “The Eighth of December”.

The Dakota, home of John Lennon at the time of his death.
The people you see are some of the mourners
who had just learned the awful news.
Notice the flag atop the building already at half-mast.

While cradling my year old son David in his bed after a bad dream, I sang softly to him my favorite Beatles song, In My Life. He stared up at me, his blue eyes moist with tears. Slowly his breathing became calm and his eyelids began to flutter. At last he was asleep and I kissed his eyes, removing the last traces of salty droplets as I pulled up his covers.

Closing the door gently behind me, I went back downstairs where my husband Bill was watching Monday Night Football. One look at him as he sat on the sofa, his head in his hands, told me his team must have been playing very badly. I kidded him about being so upset over a game but he didn’t react. I called his name and when he looked up at me there were tears running down his face. Something was terribly wrong.

I sat next to him and he turned to me, taking my hands in his. As if in some sort of fog, Bill told me that John Lennon was dead, shot on the doorsteps of his home, The Dakota. I stared at him in shock. Why would he say such a horrible thing? Who would ever want to hurt John?

He turned the tv volume back on; the game had been interrupted by the report of an incident involving John. I dropped to the floor as the reporter droned on about ‘rapid gun shots’ .. ‘police/John/hospital’ .. ‘dead on arrival’.

I cried uncontrollably and kept repeating no! no! no! as Bill held me in his arms and I sobbed in unimaginable sorrow and disbelief. We sat on the floor for a long time, clinging to each other, unable to stop our tears or unhear the words coming from the tv.

At one point our three year old son Billy crept down the stairs, frightened and wondering what was wrong with mommy. My husband quickly scooped him up and brought him to his room, whispering that mommy was very sad about something she saw on tv and she would be ok tomorrow.

But I was not ok the next day. I was not ok the next week. I was never truly ok after that night. No living, loving soul was ever ok again. The entire world was grieving.

These days, almost 38 years later, as I cradle my grand-babies in my arms and rock them to sleep, I sing In My Life and I remember John. 

NAR © 2018