Some Things Should Stay A Mystery -- Part 5: Thinking About The Past -screen_writer-

My mother died when I was eight years old. Me, my bother, and sister took it hard; but not as hard as my father. There’s not much I remember about my mother and father’s relationship, but what I can remember is nothing but good. My parents were good to me and my brother and sister. They were a happy couple, and under the circumstances they were evolved with, being happy must have been pretty difficult at times. But after my mother passed, well… my dad lost something more then the love of his life… she took a huge part of his heart with her to the grave. And he changed in a big way. He tried to do the best he could for us, but without a heart… you just go on living without purpose, and it hurt me to see him like that, and it hurt worse that I couldn’t do anything about it. God… I wish I had gone to see him one last time.

Anyhow, like I said, my mother passed when I was eight, and though she and my father had a wonderful relationship with one another, they worried a lot; about money, about me and my brother, and sister, and about the cancer that eventually took her life. I saw her worry, and worry. She agonized over the cancer so much that by the time she was thirty she was an old woman. I mean her eyes said thirty, but her mind said ninety.

I remember she had this clock. It was a gorgeous crystal clock, which was connected to a music box. At the top of each hour a ballerina would come out of the music box, and twirl to the musical notes that ticked off the hour. Personally, I never got to see the ballerina come out – my mother told me how it worked. It had been broken for as long as I could remember – stuck at eleven o’clock. The clock had belonged to my great grandmother, and for all I know it was broken when she had it as well. Nevertheless, on the night of my mother’s funeral, I was sitting in her and my father’s bedroom; I sat on their bed and wept. The clock was sitting on the dresser – like it had since it was passed down to her. And as I sat there weeping the clock started to tick; soon after the ballerina came out of her music box, and began to twirl as the music played. The little porcelain dancer spun and spun; eleven times. I watched with wide, excited eyes. I’ll never forget it.

Now I don’t know if the night in my parents room was a gift from God, or a gift from my mother; letting me know she was o.k. I do believe, though, that God does give us gifts every now and then. Miracles are what I call them. Again, I’m not sure if it was God or my mother communicating with me when I was eight, but if it was my mother, it’s my belief she went through God, making what happened to me a miracle. Currently, I truly think I have been the recipient of another miracle… “The Book”. A gift I can use to save the lives of others.

And as I sat in my bedroom, after my father’s funeral, I wept again. There was no crystal clock or porcelain ballerina to cheer me up tonight. There was Becky though. After I wept, Becky and me went out on our boat. I was tempted to tell her about the book. But I was scared she would worry too much about it. I had to protect her remember; no need in her turning out like my mother had. So I didn’t tell her. We had a wonderful night, out on the lake. However, once Becky fell off to sleep I picked up “The Book”, and opened it.

Even though the book had grown in size, it was still bizarre to see something in front of your eyes telling you that your life was going to come to an end. Sure everyone passes eventually, but to see it written in ink that… well… there was something very spooky about that. In a way it frightened me. I, temporarily, got past that and began to read… Chapter 3; which was now starting on page 479, I read,

To Be Continued…

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