Eternal Memories

   His hand gently turned the pages of the album allowing him to view the photo's one by one as if he had never seen them before.

   The wind that moved the soft white curtains, touched his face; it was the touch of an old friend that eased the pain in his heart. But he knew that the wind was his only witness and that the pain would never leave him; he had to bare it for ever.

   Halfway the book he stopped and cramped his hands round the air that surrounded him. If he had known that this was his eternal future, he had changed his plans. His impulses at the time were too... well... impulsive. No control and less satisfaction although when it happened he thought different about it. He thought he had worked his way to the climax very carefully and well considered. It was not so that he did it when he felt like it, no, it took him weeks! But after the second time he never did it again.
He was not sick. Or mentally ill. He was a normal guy who took his chance when he recognized it.

   Brought up by his uncle who was his mother's brother, and his aunt, he received enough love and attention, as if he was their own son. He did not think they spoiled him, his parents died when he was very young and it was only his right to receive love from the nearest family member. He felt so much their son that he never wanted to talk about his own parents. And his aunt and uncle also never talked about them.
   Although he was very young when they died, he still remembered that day but always considered it as a normal occasion in his life. Something that was predicted to happen and that was it; life went on as he explained the doctors who took him into hospital but who did not understand his feelings. They sent him home because his other behaviours were of that of a regular young child.

   He was raised with love and responsibility for the company of his uncle who wanted him to take over one day. He loved that responsibility and getting in control. He spent all his energy in the business and hardly lived a life outside it. Of course this caused concerns with his aunt and uncle but they did not bother too much. Their happiness over the continuation of the company that they built with their own hands, was more important.
   Still they were a bit disappointed that he seemed not to be interested in women. Silently they hoped this was going to change when the right girl came into his life but never mentioned it to him. They knew how focussed he was at one thing at the time and that handling more responsibilities let alone 'temptations of the flesh' wasn't going to work....

   While he loosened his grip on the surrounding air, he remembered how aware he was of their feelings and thoughts at the time. And right now, looking back at his life as if it was played in front of him on a bright screen that showed even the tiniest details, he felt the same cold again that surround his heart when he was young. A cold that protected him against feelings he could not and did not want to handle. Or as he called it now, did not want to take responsibility for. It was so much easier not to feel responsible; it put the things he had done and was going to do, in a right perspective.
    The cold from then was totally different from the cold he lived in now. The old one he could touch and control, not only physically but also mentally. The cold of today was thin and transparent; untouchable, not his but controlled by others who finally made him aware of what he did and who let him suffer without a cure.

   Punishment. He tasted the word and it did not taste good any more. In the past it was a word with a sweet edge to it and he loved it. Today it tasted bitter and unwanted for the one and only reason he was now the victim of punishment and could not defend himself, even if he wanted.

   His hand touched the next page in the photo album but he hesitated to view the photo. It was not the first time, he spent so much time in this room going through the album but every time he reached this specific page, he hesitated. Not because of what he was going to see but more because they forced him to turn the page and being forced was something he still was not good at. At the same time he knew that if he did not do it, they took his hand and that feeling he was never going to get used to.

    Finally he turned the page; his eyes were drawn to the photo of the beautiful young girl that one day entered the office as his new assistant. He still felt the emotions of that day; they never involved him in her employment. Never!! Again his anger raised to a high level and the cold around him worsened.
   But back then he did no show his anger to anyone and smiled his ever so charming smile at the girl who promptly fell in love with him. Never had she seen such dark brown eyes and long lashes before with a man. Lashes that covered the in his eyes visible emotions but always by other people mistaken by sexy and mysterious.
Never before put a girl so much effort in asking for his attention, encouraged by his uncle and aunt who truly believed he had overgrown his lack of empathy.

   The more he was forced to like her, the colder his heart was; to an extend he turned into the same two people as all those years ago and he could not stop it.
He could not stop himself of being the charming man that accidentally touched her hand or who smiled his irresistible smile. The day came that she did not mind him putting his arm around her shoulder. She blushed when he asked her out for a drink and his uncle and aunt smiled.
The first drink was a success but he did not kiss her at her door, not even on the cheek. He knew he might loose his control too soon and this time he was going to enjoy it to the full! Every day, every hour and every minute!!

The photo album still lies on the chair he sat on when he still lived here which is a very long time ago. When he turns the pages, you don't see this. You might not even be aware of his presence, forever doomed to relive every minute of his life.

Photo: @dennislexmond_photography (Instagram)

   If you see the soft white curtain moving although the windows of this long abandoned house are firmly closed, you might not know it is the wind touching his face. Yet it is. Remember the wind that blows through every little crack in this old house, is his only friend.
They might have found his parents after he killed them when he was 6, but they never found the girl.

Only the wind knows where he dug her grave.

Word of thanks: the photo of @dennislexmond_photography (Instagram) inspired me to write this story and I was given permission to use the photo as an illustration for which I am very thankful. Thank you Dennis!

Link: please  visit the beautiful Instagram account of Dennis Lexmond Photography.

Note: the story is pure fiction! A figment of my imagination.

Helen

Father Josephus (short story)

    “God bless you my dear friend. I will miss you tremendously but will see you soon again. Even I don't live in eternity!”

   Father Josephus kissed the forehead of his life long companion Father Lubertus before the undertaker closed the lid of the coffin.

    How long did they stay here together in the Monastery? Brethren for much longer than he remembered; and he made the sign of the cross.

With his hands folded in front of his chest, his thin lips murmured a prayer, then he took his walking stick and followed the coffin. The porters walked very slowly which wasn't an easy task; the diseased was until his death, a very big and heavy man. But Father Josephus who was very old, refused with great certainty the wheel chair some caring soul brought him and they did not want him to lose his balance.

    They crossed the large and impressive chapel where a few ladies from the village sang Latin prayers. Their voices faded on their way to the high vaults where the angels folded their wings round the sound to carry it to Heaven.

The beautifully decorated brass chandeliers that glowed like pure gold and once carried large candles, moved softly when the procession walked by, as if they paid their respect to Father Lubertus and in a promise to look after Father Josephus as long as needed.

   The very few people in the procession pretended not to see the tears that softly ran down the old Brother's cheeks following the many fine lines in his face until they dripped on his habit which turned over the years from bright white to a soft equal grey. The large cross and the rosary at his belt moved with each irregular step. A lady from the village wanted to support Father Josephus and took his trembling hand but he waved her away; this was his very last walk with his friend and he wanted to do it all on his own. The day that he was going to need help, was rapidly approaching, he knew that very well. But now he walked.

   The service at the grave was very simple. After a long life dedicated to the Catholic church with all it's rituals, prayers and hymns, the incense and candles, both Brethren - the only two left in the Monastery that once was home to 200 of their colleagues - decided long ago that if one of them was going to stay behind the service for the other had to be minimalistic.

    The tears of Father Josephus were not minimalistic and he did not care. Everybody was allowed to see his sadness about the loss of his friend. He knew that his age also allowed him to cry, elderly people were more emotional than younger ones. Never could he explain nor wanted he to, the pain in his heart.

   He raised his hand with the blue vanes which shone through the almost translucent skin with the brown liver spots, to sign the porters it was time to lower the coffin to lay Father Lubertus in his final resting place amongst all those Brethren that went before him.

    He tried to raise his voice when he thanked every one for being here and if they did not mind to leave him alone. And yes he would be careful on his way back to the chapel.

The people left one by one, taking their human sounds like coughing, voices and footsteps with them until there was total silence in the graveyard. Even the birds did not sing. Bees and butterflies sat on stones and flowers without moving.

    Father Josephus put his stick against a gravestone behind him before he held the stone next to the grave of his friend with both hands. Then he kneeled, ignoring the pain in his joints and not knowing if he was able to rise again without help. But he needed to do this, he needed to sit next to the open grave in the soft fresh earth that was dug and that now besmirched his habit. But in his grief he did not notice it.

   Very slowly he lifted his hands from the gravestone and folded them in his lap. His restless fingers looked for the rosary, a custom he wasn't aware off, and touched each bead one by one. His lips moved but not in a prayer; all prayers were said over and over again. Prayers from a book, prayers that were the same for all Brethren; no personal words to God and today was not the right day.

    Today, Father Lubertus thought, was the day to look back on a long, very long life with the man he loved and who was more than a brother to him.

Was it a forbidden love? He thought so but could not remember it well. It was as with a long marriage: passion became friendship but in a very special way. You knew each others customs, you knew you could rely on your partner. You knew his words before he spoke them and recognized every emotion. Every step and every move became yours. You breathed the same air and the beat of two hearts was one. If that was forbidden love then the answer was yes.

   A love never to be spoken out loud let alone practised. Both men could say in all honesty that they never sinned against the will of the Catholic church.

But was this also the will of God? He discussed this with Father Lubertus who was like himself, brought up in a Catholic family which offered at least one son or daughter to the Monasteries, something that was never questioned. Not by the parents, nor the children, nor the Prior or Prioress. The children seldom arrived without a lot of money donated by their rich parents. Father Lubertus and Father Josephus were no exception.

   When they were in their twenties with the feelings of healthy young men, they asked each other for the very fist time if celibacy was indeed the will of God instead of the church. The discussions went on for years but became less important with ageing. These were the times you did not leave the Monastery to go back to the world outside; leaving was a disgrace for church ánd family.

    But when the years went by and brethren died and no new young men joined the order, it was if their earlier doubts were confirmed. The world changed, they even heard of Catholic priests being married and how furious the Pope was about this sin. Still, it was too late. Too late to leave the Monastery, too late to speak out loud their love for each other and too late to return home because there was no home any more. Both were extremely old, almost a century!

With all their best will and energy they lived the lives they always lived in an empty cold and deserted building where even their footsteps were not heard any more.

   

  

Photo: @abandonment_issuez (Instagram)

Father Josephus still sat near the grave when the gravedigger arrived.

The hands still folded but the fingers did not touch the beads any more. The translucent skin was white and the blue vanes frozen in a black colour.

The tears of the days before dried and the soft ground from the grave was turned into sand that blew in the wind with the same pace of the grey old habit......

   The wind and rain are also in control of the Monastery which grandeur is fading like the voices that once sang their religious songs and that stopped when the angels folded their wings round the soul of Father Josephus.

Word of thanks: the photo of @abandonment_issuez (Istagram) inspired me to write this story and I was given permission to use the photo as an illustration for which I am very grateful. Thank you Ricky!

Links: please visit the beautiful Instagram account of @abandonment_issuez and his YouTube Account

Note: the story is pure fiction! A figment of my imagination!

Helen