He Killed Our Father (page 12)

nancy drew

ah... so we are back to vincent again.

I'm glad because this is my favorite one of your fantastical escapes

compound complex

Thank you, Nancy, for expressing thoughts of particular meaning to me.

The stream-of-consciousness ramblings of a madman come so readily, so quickly to me; my fingers to the keyboard, the peculiar and psychotic reasonings of the writer take form and flesh out the bones and brain of a New Age Norman Bates.

I really do appreciate your having stopped by.

All the best,

CoCo

compound complex

Wandering the streets late that one particular night, Vincent had no real intent other than to escape the confines of a house oppressed by loneliness, memories and madness.

He missed both his parents. Steady. Loving. Protective. They had always been there for him, especially when he had had to escape the local scene and get his head and heart together at the retreat. They understood, because they, too, had been young once and, typical of most young folk, inclined toward idealism and passion. Sometimes a passion misdirected. He had been gone too long, yes, perhaps too long. But they had never complained.

The aging couple were delighted to care for the new arrival committed to their care. His mother and father were willing to call Vincent's son their own and love him as their own. The infant's mother handed him over without a tear in her eye, and the distraught, underage father had to get some distance between himself and all he knew and loved.

That was so long ago yet still close enough at hand that confusion and remorse suffocated him at times. One day he had found the boy going through his dresser drawers where he had not so cleverly stashed away a photo of Maggie. No need to hide it, but certainly no reason to display openly a picture of his lady love, the boy's mother.

satinka

I suspect that being raised a JW could leave anyone with a kind of morbidity.

This thread got resurrected from several months ago!

Nevertheless, I sooooooo enjoy your writing, CoCo!

satinka

nancy drew

I believe the singer Bobby Darin found out when he was an adult that his older sister was really his birth mother and the person he thought was his mother was really grandma.

My aunt was raised by a woman she thought was her aunt only to find out she was really her mother.

it happens

compound complex

Greetings, satinka and Nancy:

Thank you both for commenting.

The tale never ends, satinka, that being the reason behind literary resurrections. I'm glad you enjoy what you're reading and appreciate that you say so!

Yes, Nancy, it does happen. I did view Beyond the Sea , with Kevin Spacey, and recall that issue clearly. Loved the movie and KS's singing.

Much of what I write is based on what I know of personally or what I have felt, thought and experienced. Except my trips to outer space. Haven't been there in past or future lives.

Gratefully,

CoCo

compound complex

I walked to the edge today and, as I peered downward ... downward, I wondered what might possibly await in the canyon below.

Of course, when not attending to my brother, Vincent, and his growing emotional need upon me due to the pervasiveness of depression that's settled into his being since Father's death, I take time for myself (when I can pull away from duty) and fly above the cares, the worries of the day. That is why, when I come to the brink, such as I did today when walking along the ridge with Tahoe on the horizon, I take flight, soaring, soaring above the stately pines and interspersing copses of plump oaks that have, since childhood, been my constant companions.

They stood by me when Vincent was away - far away - at the bidding of the church who said it was God. I believe in trees because they are there - immovable and majestic - but I do not believe in a god that takes away my brother to an ivory tower in New York to do the bidding of old men who know neither life nor love. Vincent said one day I would understand, but what I really think is that he was running away, running away from responsibility and, perhaps - I cannot put my finger on it - a secret that is not so much a secret but something shameful.

Shame and guilt and fear are a product of what that lady at the door fed him and he believed and turned my world upside down. Why couldn't she have minded her own business? Vincent already believed in God - I know he did because he used to tell me stories from the Bible, and at that time I loved them, especially the story of Ruth and Boaz - Boaz the honorable and just. My Vincent was like Boaz. He was a man of honor and he cared for his mother and father and me. Then he left - not home at first, but his heart and mind abandoned me as I became smaller and smaller and felt as though I was nonexistent. To him, to his god.

I stand on the edge once again and I look out toward the horizon, knowing somewhere there is love and acceptance for me. I cannot carry Vincent forever, though I truly do care for him. As I ascend higher and higher, I will find my own place in the sun ... but being mindful that I do not burn my wings....

He Killed Our Father

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