Posts tagged ‘family’
ELMO’S INVENTION, CHAPTER 8
ELMO’S INVENTION
CHAPTER 8
TIME MACHINE, BIG NEWS
The following Wednesday Elmo went to work and immediately became aware that something was not quite right. Everyone stared at him as if he had two heads. His usually friendly coworkers were avoiding making eye-contact with him, were uncomfortable to be in the same room as him. Someone finally handed Elmo the latest edition of the Los Alamos Herald, published that morning.
Elmo was shocked at the headline, shouting in huge bold print, Scientist, Elmo Baker Has Invented a Prison that will Change Humanity. He couldn’t believe it. He kept muttering to himself, “They promised not to publish.” He read on and found to his dismay all the details he shared with Nate Bush. How would this change his life? He was sure it would not be for the better; trouble was surely down the road, and he had a feeling the road would not be a long one.
After sitting in his cubicle, he immediately phoned Nate. “You promised not to publish anything about my invention. I trusted you.”
Elmo could hear the guilt in Nate’s voice as he answered, “I wanted to honor my promise, but the managing editor insisted I publish the article. Circulation is down and he wanted something that would catch the readership’s interest. All we ever get to report is the local news, and with the gossip in this town, most people know what we publish before we publish it. This story is big.
“But I trusted you. People at work look at me as if I’m some kind of freak. What are the rest of the people in Los Alamos going to think?”
“Take it easy, Elmo. I’m sure this will blow over in no time at all and everything will return to normal.”
The next day Elmo’s life would change in a big way.
* * *
The Los Alamos rag was read by the locals for local news. Because interest in the paper’s stories appealed to former Los Alamos residents, stories were posted with a wire service. That’s how Elmo’s problems reached a new level.
The Friday morning after the story appeared in The Los Alamos Herald, Elmo and Mildred were sitting at the kitchen table enjoying a breakfast of eggs, bacon and toast. Mildred asked, “Things calmed down in work, Elmo?”
“Things are better now. I explained, to anyone interested, that I discovered the ‘prison’ by mistake, that I’m not really sure that it has any practical purpose and that’s the truth. I can’t picture the thing being used, and Kingsley Dasher hinted that there may be problems down the road even though he was the one who first envisioned the device as a prison. I sure didn’t tell anyone that it was a time machine that I really wanted to invent. I can just imagine the response I would get from that bit of information.”
Elmo was about to continue when the ringing phone interrupted him.
Mildred said, “I’ll get that. Hold your thought.”
Elmo watched as she answered the phone. At first she had a puzzled look on her face, and then her eyebrows knit, and her forehead wrinkled with shock and confusion. She said to the caller, “Yes, Mr. Slattery, this is the residence of Elmo Baker. He’s right here.”
Elmo was puzzled. He didn’t know a Mr. Slatterly.
Mildred held her hand over the mouthpiece and whispered, “He’s a reporter from The New York Times.”
A film of sweat broke out on Elmo’s forehead. He knew this was going to be trouble. He slowly took the phone from Mildred. “Hello, this is Elmo Baker. How can I help you?”
“Dr. Baker, this is Joe Slatterly from The New York Times, the paper is extremely interested in the wire story published by The Los Alamos Herald. I’d like to come to New Mexico and interview you and take some pictures of your machine. It could change the penal system as we know it. We feel that the public needs to know about your invention.”
Elmo thought about the reaction that the locals had when they read about his invention. He could not imagine what it would be like if the entire country, no wait, the entire world knew about his invention.
Elmo said, “I don’t think I’d be comfortable letting the world know about my invention. The reaction locally was not the best. I’d rather forget about the whole thing.”
“But Elmo. Can I call you Elmo?”
“Sure, Elmo’s fine.”
“You could change society for the better. The convicted could fulfill their debt to society and not experience the degradation and dangers of prison life. There would be less recidivism. Prisoners could get on with their lives without the scars of prison life.”
Elmo began to weaken. “I suppose my machine could serve a benefit to society.”
“I’m sure it would. Have you thought much about patenting and selling it?”
“I do plan to patent it, but after that, I don’t know. I’m just now getting over the shock of how the news was taken around here.”
Slatterly talked fast. He didn’t want to lose Elmo. “Well, an article in The New York Times would certainly provide a great deal of publicity. It might cause some rough spots for you, but it would definitely make the public aware of your device, especially potential customers. And you know what they say. ‘There’s no such thing as bad publicity.’”
Mildred listened to Elmo’s end of the conversation and could tell he was wavering and began to think he would do what the reporter wanted him to do. The gleam in his eyes was beginning to frighten her. See had seen that look too many times before.
After a few more minutes Elmo finished his conversation by saying, “That would be fine, Mr. Slatterly. I’m looking forward to seeing you the day after tomorrow.”
After Elmo hung up Mildred immediately asked, “Elmo, what are you doing? Are you going to talk to that reporter even after how our neighbors and friends reacted after they found out about your machine? How could you?”
Doubt passed over Elmo’s face, but he quickly recovered. “Mil, I could help society, free-up money for uses more important than prisons, like education and medical research.”
“Oh, I see, Elmo. You are going to save the world while we become lepers in our own community.”
“That’s a little harsh, Mil.”
“We’ll see,” Mildred said as she stormed out of the room.
* * *
Two days later The New York Times reporter, along with his photographer, appeared at Elmo’s front door. They called ahead from the airport before they left New York to let Elmo know when he should be expecting them. When the doorbell rang Elmo wanted to get to the front door before Mildred, who had been moody ever since the reporter’s call.
Elmo opened the door and extended his hand to the young smartly dressed man before him. “You must be Joe Slatterly from The New York Times.”
“That’s right, sir. And this is my photographer, Larry Hitchcock. I’ve been looking forward to this interview and seeing your machine.”
Elmo began, “First, call me Elmo. Let’s go down to the cellar. I’ve been planning a demonstration for you.” Elmo led the way to the cellar door and found Mildred standing close to it. She was civil to the two men from The New York Times, Elmo knew she would be. What he feared was how she would react and what she would say after they left.
As the group descended the stairs to Elmo’s laboratory, Elmo said, over his shoulder, “I’ve arranged a little demonstration to show you how my device works.”
Once in the cellar, Larry said, “Look, Joe, an old iron lung. I haven’t seen one of those in years. Elmo, do you collect old medical equipment too?”
Slatterly was in a hurry. He wanted to see the demonstration, talk to Elmo and get out of Hicksville as soon as possible. “So,” Slatterly asked, “where is your machine?”
Elmo pointed to the iron lung, “That’s it, gentlemen. I needed a chamber that would fit a human. Although it may not look like much, what makes this iron lung unique is the electronics I’ve incorporated. Let me show you how it works.”
Walking to a cage at a far wall, Elmo extracted a rat, which he had recently obtained, and returned to the iron lung. He put the rat in the chamber and motioned for Larry to approach. “Larry, you might want to take a ‘before’ photo of the rat.”
“Sure, Elmo.”
Once the photo was taken Elmo said, “I will conduct this experiment in two stages. This rat is about four months old. The lifespan of a rat is about three years. I will first set the time dial to two years and the length of the experiment to one minute.” Elmo pushed the initiate button and said to the men, “Please observe.”
They stepped closer to the chamber and saw that a white mist had enveloped the rat, and then quickly disappeared. The rodent appeared to be slightly bigger than before.
Elmo said, “As you can see, the rat has increased in size. Now I shall set the time dial to twenty years.”
Once again Elmo initiated the sequence and once again the chamber filled with a white mist. As the mist began to clear, Nate and Larry could see the rat shrivel. It became no more than a husk and then collapsed into a mound of dust and bones. Elmo told Larry, “You can take the ‘after’ picture now.”
Joe and Larry were speechless. Both expected this claim, for a device which could serve as a prison, to be the fantasy of some demented scientist, but here was the proof before their eyes. They were truly amazed at what they had witnessed. Larry took the picture but still couldn’t believe what he had seen.
Joe, still mystified at what he had witnessed, asked, “How did you do that, Elmo?”
“Well,” Elmo began, “the science is rather complicated. Let’s just say that the theory and principles behind this device are based, for the most part, on Einstein’s work.” Elmo could not reveal, in reality, that he did not truly understand how it worked and that it was meant to be a time machine.
Joe asked, “So this thing will kill the occupant?”
Elmo was shocked and quickly answered, “Oh no, no. As you witnessed, the first run only aged the rat. I wanted the rat to expire in order to demonstrate that time, in the chamber, had truly advanced. I wasn’t sure if you would believe, with the first experiment, that the rat had aged.
“If a human had been in the chamber he would have aged twenty years in a matter of minutes. His debt to society, paid.”
After a few more questions for Elmo, Joe said, “I guess we’re finished, Elmo. This will make a great story, and the pictures should really open the eyes of the public.”
Elmo felt apprehension with the last comment.
Joe asked, “Elmo, could we get a photo of you standing in front of your machine?”
Elmo hesitated, but finally said, “I guess it would be all right.”
Larry took the picture, and the trio then walked up the stairs out of the cellar. Joe and Larry said their goodbyes and drove away.
As Elmo closed the door he could hear Mildred walk into the room behind him. This was the moment he dreaded.
“Well, Elmo, were those fellas impressed by your machine? Did they get the story they wanted?”
“Yes, dear, I think things went rather well. I demonstrated the device, and they were most impressed.”
Mildred turned and, as she left the room, said with coldness in her voice, “We’ll see what happens when the story comes out. I hope I’m wrong about bad things to come and soon the entire matter just fades away.”
Elmo began to think that this was going better than he had hoped, but that thought was short lived.
ELMO’S INVENTION, CHAPTER 2
ELMO’S INVENTION
CHAPTER 2
THE BEGINNING OF THE TIME MACHINE
One day after visiting the supermarket, although in those days they weren’t very super, Mildred was pulling her two-wheeled shopping cart down the street and was amazed to see a pickup parked in her driveway. It was three in the afternoon and four burly men stood behind the truck. They looked relieved when they saw her approach. In the bed of the truck was a huge piece of equipment. Mildred recognized it immediately. It was an iron lung.
Just recently, the newly developed polio vaccine began distribution on sugar cubes. Gradually iron lungs were no longer needed. However, Mildred had lived with the fear of polio, knew people who had contracted the disease. Some still depended on the device for their lives to continue. “Where do you want this, lady?” asked the man obviously in charge.
“I don’t want it anywhere,” answered Mildred. She had no idea why they had brought this to her home. Then her mind had a flash, Elmo.
“Does an Elmo Baker live here?” the man asked.
There it was. Her husband had bought an iron lung. Shaking her head, Mildred said, “I’m sure it belongs in the cellar. I’ll show you the way.”
After many grunts and groans, the machine rested on its wheels in the cellar.
“What could Elmo want with this thing?” pondered Mildred out loud.
Hearing Mildred one of the men said, “I don’t know nothing, lady. We just deliver.”
The crew went back upstairs and climbed into their truck and left. And Elmo had some explaining to do when he came home from work.
CAT’S EYES, PART II
CAT’S EYES, PART II
Joe thought constantly about what his friend had told him about the chance for a transplant and of his condition. Macular degeneration was a slow process, for some not so slow, but the endpoint was certain.
Joe was writing in his study Sammy walked in. Sammy was short for Samantha, and she was hell on wheels, or rather, paws. His older cat, Sally’s life was drastically disrupted by this new member of the family. When Sammy wasn’t running around like a maniac or sleeping, she was stalking Sally. Poor meek Sally was leading a tormented life. As Sammy entered the study, she was her usual hyperactive self. She paused to be petted, then ran about madly bouncing off the piles of books scattered around the house. In the middle of her insane race, she did something that Joe had seen both Sammy and Sally do. She stopped in her tracks, sat down, and gazed at the ceiling. She was watching something, something that Joe could not see, yet it took up her full attention. Sammy turned her head from side to side as if following a vision. After a few moments she returned to her manic activity.
What is she seeing? Joe thought. His writer’s mind began to work in overdrive. Among other genres, he wrote horror. Maybe she’s seeing ghosts, he thought. Imagine if I could see what she is seeing. Joe anticipated his next drinking session with Howard.
THE HORROR AT LAKE HARMONY: HORROR SHORT STORY, PARTVI
This story was published by Necrology Shorts in January 2010.
THE HORROR AT LAKE HARMONY
I carefully closed the book and felt a shiver as I recalled some newspaper accounts of horrible occurrences that happened at Lake Harmony remembering that they took place at four year intervals.
* * *
The latest incident occurred on June 12, 1998. A group of four friends came to the campsite where we enjoyed camping. Pitching their tent, they settled in for a few days of hiking and fishing. It was reported that they were to leave the morning of June 13. The morning of June 13 arrived and the surrounding campsites awoke to find that site 35 was empty. The men were gone, along with their belongings. They were never seen again. They had disappeared with no word to their family or friends. I remembered in the article about the fishermen, an earlier incident was mentioned of a horrifying occurrence that had never been solved.
It was June 12, 1994. A family of four, a mom, dad and two young sons were camping at site 34. On the morning of their departure, no one stirred. Finally, the time to vacate the site arrived and their tent was still standing with all their gear spread around the campsite. A ranger stopped at the campsite and called out, “Time to pack-up and leave”. There was no response. He shouted that he was opening the tent and did so. The poor fellow lost his mind with the sight that greeted him. The mother and boys were there, murdered and horribly mutilated. The father was gone and suspected of the crimes. He was never found.
PLUMBING PROBLEMS: PART IX
PLUMBING PROBLEMS IX
“Hang on,” she said, “I’ll try his cell phone.” She came back on the line and said her call to Dave could not be completed; something was wrong with his cell phone. I wasn’t prepared for her next response.
She half shouted and half cried, “That bastard!”
There was more to come.
“He’s with his slut, that son of a bitch. That’s the only place he can be.” Debbie continued with an explanation that I really didn’t need to hear. “We had just been married a year, and I knew I wasn’t his first girlfriend, but I figured I’d be the last. Dave had accepted a job from a woman new to the area and I found out he was servicing more than just her plumbing. No that’s wrong, he was servicing her plumbing.” Debbie wailed, “That’s the only place he could be, and if that’s where he is he can go to hell!”
As fast as I could, I offered to let her know if Dave returned, said good-bye and hung up. I needed to have my plumbing fixed and not to be in the middle of a marital dispute.
I searched around the house and walked the fields again but there was no sign of Dave. By now night was approaching. With reluctance I called the police. I related to the officer Dave’s disappearance and also about my conversation with his wife.
“Sounds like a sticky situation,” came the officer’s reply. He continued, “I’ll phone the wife. She’s the one that has to file a missing person report. After I talk to her I’ll take a run out to your place and see if I can figure out what is going on.”
I said I’d be watching for him, hung up and looked into having the mess upstairs cleaned up. A few hours later a police car pulled up behind Dave’s truck. By now it was quite dark, so I put on the outside lights and saw a policeman walking towards the front door. He introduced himself as Officer Marks and I asked him in.
PLUMBING PROBLEMS: PART VIII
PLUMBING PROBLEMS VIII
While Robin was involved with her various activities, I busied myself with some errands. After a few hours we returned home and as we approached the house, I was surprised to see Dave’s truck still in my driveway. I got Robin settled with a snack and a video we had rented, then proceeded upstairs to see how things are coming along. I thought Dave would be long gone by now. The fact that he was still here was not a good sign; a big bill was heading my way. Halfway up the stairs, I was greeted by a horrible stench that started me gagging. I made it up the stairs and opened some of the windows. The house smelled like Porto-John on a hot summer day. I was not really prepared for what I found in the master bathroom. Dave’s tools were scattered over the floor, but Dave wasn’t there. Yellowish goo, inches deep in some places, covered the bathroom floor. The smell in the bathroom was horrible, smelling as if the septic system had backed up and that smell was combined with another smell that defied description. I hurried from the bathroom and started calling for Dave. I went outside for some fresh air and took a short walk around the property. Jack was working in his field, so I asked if he had seen anyone walking around my place. Jack just shook his head and went back to his work. Finally, I phoned Dave’s office and was greeted by the voice of a young woman who introduced herself as Debbie Watson and asked how she could help me. I told her who I was and that Dave’s truck was still at my house but I couldn’t find Dave and my plumbing problems were getting worse. Debbie’s voice changed from that of a professional secretary to a worried wife and then to something else. She suddenly sounded furious.
THE DRIVING LESSON: A COMEDY
An unpublished story
THE DRIVING LESSON
Many years ago, while I was in high school, Sam Franks was my driving instructor. He was a good instructor, easy-going and fun. Then one day I had an instructor change: a change from hell.
I was a junior, and every Thursday, during, my study hall I was scheduled for a driving lesson. Mr. Franks taught me to drive a Honda, equipped for student drivers; I loved driving that little car.
The morning of my fourth lesson arrived and I went out to the parking lot to meet Mr. Franks, but he wasn’t there, and the Honda was nowhere in sight. I walked around the lot looking lost when I heard my name called out. I turned to see a man approaching, a stranger to me, and someone who seemed out of place in a high school parking lot. He appeared to be in his sixties, tall and thin. What really made him stand out were his clothes. He wore faded bib overalls, stained with oil and grease and a mixture of other things better left unknown. Under his overalls he wore a white sweatshirt, or at least a sweatshirt that was white at one time years ago. On his head he wore a faded green John Deere cap rimmed with sweat stains. Long white hair emerged from beneath the cap. Work boots completed the outfit. His heavily whiskered cheek bulged with what I thought was the largest piece of gum I had ever seen anyone chew.
As he approached he shouted, “Can I help you? Looking for a driving lesson?”
“Well, yes”, I replied,” I’m looking for Mr. Franks.”
“Well, you found him, “came his answer. Now my Mr. Franks was in his thirties, kind of preppy while this guy was old enough to be his – father. The fact that this man knew my name at first puzzled me, but I started putting two and two together – fast. “I guess you expected to see Sam Jr., well, he ain’t here, gone to Pittsburgh to interview for another job and I’m filling in.
“Are you a teacher?” I asked with an unsteady voice.
“Listen, I taught Sam Jr. how to drive a tractor. If I could teach that lunkhead son of mine to drive a tractor I sure as hell can teach you to drive a car. The principal of the school said I needed a teaching credential but I had a year to get it, so I figured what the hell, I’ll make some money for a year and then I’m out of here. Now let’s get your butt behind the wheel.”
That was the other problem I immediately identified, there was no car. I guess from the look on my face, Mr. Franks Sr. knew what I was thinking. “Sam Jr. loaned that little Honda to another teachee, so I had to bring my own vehicle.” With that, Mr. Franks pointed to a pickup truck older than me. Between the rust and the patching, I found it hard to determine the color, but I think it had once been blue. Now the Honda I loved had three peddles – a gas pedal and two brake pedals. The truck had three peddles also, but they were all on the driver’s side. This damn old piece of crap had a standard transmission.
“I can’t drive a standard transmission,” I said.
“Oh yes you can,” came Mr. Franks reply.
“What about the instructor’s brake?” was my next question?
“I got long legs,” he said, “and I figure after I squash your foot a couple of times you won’t make any more stupid damn mistakes.”
Did I want to go back into school or what – but the lessons were paid for and Mr. Franks did not look like the kind of man that would give refunds. When I entered the cab of the pickup I got a sickening feeling that it wasn’t gum that was bulging his cheek. There, attached to the dash, with a piece of coat hanger, was an old coffee can, which he wound up using often during the lesson. Reluctantly, I sat on the bench seat of the pickup, and with some difficulty, attached the lap belt. The next the thing I knew, Mr. Franks was shouting, “Damn it, what in the hell are you doing messing up the seat belts?”
“I’m using it,” I said firmly.
“I had them all laid out so nice and now you screwed them up,” he groaned, “don’t let it happen again.”
With the seat belt part of the lesson out of the way, I started the engine. We immediately lurched forward and the engine died. “What in the hell do you think the clutch is for, decoration?” he screamed. I thought maybe he could teach me the use of the clutch, but I kept that idea to myself. I felt a demonstration would be helpful and it was soon in coming. “Put your foot on the clutch,” he said, and I did. Before I knew it his size twelve work boot had smashed the clutch peddle, along with my foot, down to the floor. “You step on the clutch when you start the engine and when you change gears, you idiot.”
I will not describe the next fifteen or so minutes because it has taken me years trying to forget. I finally got the truck started and sort of found most of the gears. The fact that I didn’t have to wear a neck collar for months after the lesson was a miracle. By the time we made it out of the parking lot, my lesson was more than half over. “We’ll just do a little driving and then head back,” he said. After a little time on the road, I gained some confidence, although confidence might be too strong a word. We were driving along when I noticed that the light at the intersection about half a block away had turned yellow. I started to gently ease off on the gas when Mr. Franks’ size twelve mashed my foot and the gas pedal down to the floor. People dove for the sidewalk as we barreled through the red light. I sat waiting for the explanation for this maneuver and it was soon coming. “You heard about defensive driving?” he asked. I nodded yes. “Well remember this; the best defense is a good offense.” I rolled my eyes. Mr. Franks was into offensive driving, what a surprise.
The next thing I knew he grabbed the wheel and jerked it to the right. I felt a slight thump, thump as the wheels ran over something. “Stop the truck,” he yelled, “I think we nailed him.” I looked in the rearview mirror and could not believe my eyes. A squirrel lay dead in the street. Franks hopped out of the truck, retrieved a burlap bag from the truck bed, and bagged the poor critter. “Won’t have to go shopping on my way home now,” he said. “You know,” he went on, “all you need to do is skin ‘em and gut ‘em. The wheels act as kind of a natural tenderizer – breaks up the bones and the meat just melts in your mouth.”
I was going to be sick.
That was my first lesson with Sam Franks Sr., but not my last. I finished the course with him and went on to get my license, but I was never quite the same.
I’m married now and have a daughter who wants to learn to drive and wants me to teach her. She doesn’t think her dad has the patience. We’ve gone driving a few times now. Our seatbelts are always buckled, and when we approach a yellow light I make her stop even if she thinks she can make it. I’ve cleared most of Mr. Franks Sr.’s unique habits from my teaching techniques. But I still harbor the memory of that poor little squirrel.
Suddenly a squirrel darts out onto the road, I have a sudden urge, but I keep it under control.
THE END
A CHRISTMAS TREE STORY
A CHRISTMAS TREE STORY
For many years my family practiced a Christmas tradition involved in obtaining a Christmas tree. This experience holds a special place in our hearts. Those of you buying a live tree this Christmas season, a tree with an enormous price, may shed a tear after reading this story.
Many years ago, a friend at work told me about a unique tree farm where trees cost seven dollars. I can assure you that the prices of trees on Christmas tree lots, at that time, were much more. I obtained directions to the farm, and one Sunday afternoon, piled the family into our car and off we went. After a few wrong turns I found the farm. And for years we went there for our Christmas tree and experienced the true meaning of Christmas.
The tree farm was south of Phenixville Pennsylvania. I learned from the owner that the property was once the site of a small airport having a hanger in which he could store his powder blue tail-dragger single engine high wing plane. After many years the hanger was falling apart, and much to his amazement, he was able to fire up the engine and taxi the plane out. But I doubt that the plane will ever fly again.
Now back to the trees.
The tree farm was made up of groves of jack-pine trees, and he spent the off season trimming the trees for sale for Christmas. He was in his late seventies or early eighties, and you could tell, for now, it was his life’s work.
Now a jack-pine is an evergreen with branches, far apart, along its trunk. They were scraggly looking trees, but you could load ornaments along the full length of the branches. As opposed to the usual ‘full’ Christmas trees where only the tips of the branches could be decorated. Once decorated, these jack-pine trees were beautiful.
For tree selection my two daughters brought along multiple scarves to drape on trees which showed promise. Once the ‘perfect tree’ was chosen I cut it down and carried it to the small trailer he kept on the property. He wrapped the tree with twine then went inside with my wife and daughters to sip hot chocolate. While I was left to tie the tree to the car roof coming close to suffering frostbite.
On the wall of the trailer were mounted news articles. Clippings about the farm and his generosity. He donated trees to churches and organizations. I’m he would give trees to those suffering hardship.
Once home, we decorated our scrawny ‘Charlie Brown tree’ and turned it into a thing of beauty.
After a few years of getting our trees at the farm the owner told me he thought he was charging too much so he lowered the price to five dollars. I began bringing him a loaf of homemade cinnamon raisin bread and he told me I could have a tree for free. I assured him that five dollars was what I would pay.
The man through all the years had a collie running free on the property. But the dog wandered somewhere causing someone to complain. A township official arrived and warned the man about his dog. The next time we went to buy a tree he told me that that’s it and he was selling the property. I hope he got a good price and I’m sure some developer filled the land with McMansions sitting cheek to jowl. Houses with no character, only volume.
I will never return to that property for it would spoil my memories of a wonderful Christmas tradition. That fellow was the epitome of the Christmas spirit with the kindness and generosity of the holiday season.
POEMS AND FLEETING THOUGHTS: REMEMBERING MY NIECE, LISA
Written 11/23/15
Lisa Eckert, died when 25.
Today would have been 41.
She is remembered.
Lisa
There is a love beyond description,
Beyond the commonplace,
The love of a child
Fractured by fate,
Innocent of understanding
In a world
Where that may be a gift,
Surrounded love,
Existing in love,
Until love took her home.
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