I repacked my suitcase to accommodate the New Hampshire winter, but kept my flip-flops, shorts and suntan lotion in there just in case I could still make my once-in-a-lifetime cruise—Daddy would have wanted me to go.

Everything was right where he left it. His coveralls, gloves, boots and hat lay right inside the front door of the cozy cabin tucked into the White Mountains where my parents retired in 1988. He didn’t need them anymore. His camera sat on the floor just inside the door; the last things his eyes saw that day captured in snapshots he took of the pure white snow surrounding the place he loved.

We learned so much about our father that week. His meek life held many treasures. Organized to the tee, yet unconcerned with appearances, Daddy lived quietly and loved deeply. His Bible was so worn its spine was reinforced with duct tape. I smile each time I look at it.

The other day I opened its old pages and began reading. Daddy used pencil to mark in his Bible so I didn’t catch it right away, but there was this tiny marking next to every instance of the words eternity and forever. It was the infinity symbol (Daddy was an electrical engineer). I smile at each one knowing how much he longed to be in heaven with his Savior, Jesus Christ and that he is now experiencing his deepest longing.

2011 was a year of revelation for me. I did get to go on that cruise and beside the still Caribbean waters, God restored my soul. The lessons Daddy taught me, both verbally and through the way he lived his life, became as clear as the ink on the pages of his old Bible. Yes, I still mourn his absence, but it is a sweet sorrow; it is joyful—like celebrating someone’s graduation from long years of study; it’s how Daddy always described it would be: a heavenly promotion.

And so I want to spend 2012 sharing with you the nuggets of wisdom my Daddy shared with me. Here’s the first one:

“God can bless you every minute of every hour of every day of every month of every year of your life—and never repeat Himself.” Galen R. Courtney 1933-2011

My prayer for you in this New Year is that you will watch for God’s blessings and always take time to tremble and marvel at His infinite ability to make all things new!  (Revelation 21:5)

“Tina, I was just talking with Mrs. Stone an hour ago. Is she still cleaning out Mr. Stone’s room or isn’t she?” The girl just stared at me like I had lost my mind.

“Tina. Why won’t you answer me? Yes, I know you were using your cell phone on work hours and yes, I will have to write you up for that, but right now I need a straight answer: is Mrs. Stone still here?”

“I’m sorry Mrs. Cox, I didn’t mean to use my phone but I thought it was a call about my mom, she’s still in surgery and—”

Everything inside me wanted to reach across the desk and shake that girl. “Tina! Is Mrs. Stone still in the building?!” I had never raised my voice at work before. Not once. Why was I losing control? This crazy journal—this crazy couple had driven me insane!

Tina looked at the phone messages now crumpled in my angry hand. “What? Why do you keep staring at these messages?” I clamped my lips shut as I sensed a powerful, monstrous anger overtaking my body. Now that I look back on it, I swear something outside of me helped me get a grip and stop that thing from crushing Tina. I shudder just thinking about it; I could be writing this from prison right now had I acted on my feelings in that moment.

Thankfully, I gained enough presence of mind to focus my eyes on the messages in my hand. I flipped through three before I got to the one that was the reason behind why Tina could not give me an answer to my question. It was from the local police department, received at 4:30 AM and retrieved from voicemail by Tina at 8:40 AM—the exact time I was in Mr. Stone’s room with Mrs. Stone; the exact moment she handed me her journal.

The message only said that the police called and nothing about why. I knew her habit of forgetting to write down the message was part of her hesitancy. “Tina, this is from the police. What did they say?”

“Didn’t I write it down?” she said, avoiding my eyes.

“Stop messing with me, Tina. What did they want?” The monster inside me struggled against my will. I forced it down and slammed the messages on the counter. Tina jumped.

“I don’t have time for this,” I snapped. I stomped off to Mr. Stone’s former room to see for myself if Mrs. Stone was there. I would graciously give her back her journal and this whole thing would be over once and for all. I’d even help her pack and personally load up her car with Mr. Stone’s things if it would advance that end.

Mr. Stone’s room was just as I had found it before Mrs. Stone joined me in it at eight that morning. Not one thing was touched. The only thing missing was the journal I had found on his nightstand now firmly gripped in my hand. That’s strange.

I yanked the door open and rushed back down the hall to the Afterglow room where the staff had laid Mr. Stone’s body. There it was, just as it had been before Mrs. Stone and I had entered to view it together shortly after I had arrived to work that morning. By now, the body should be in the morgue readied for transport to the cemetery. The Stone’s had chosen to bypass all formal services. Something isn’t right here. I hurried to the nurse’s station and marched toward Angie.

“Why isn’t Mr. Stone’s body at the morgue?”

Angie shrugged without looking up from her clipboard and said, “probably because Mrs. Stone hasn’t shown up to view it yet.”

If there was such a thing as a cork that kept my insides from exploding, I believe at that moment it popped out of my head. “What?!” My outburst stopped every human being within 50 feet of my voice like a child’s “freeze” game. I swallowed hard and turned on my heel. I did not have the ability at that point to either explain my outburst or apologize. Instead I stomped back to Tina.

“Hand me the phone,” I ordered Tina. I plucked the message from the police off the counter and dialed. I reached the detective named in the message, identified myself and asked why he called. As I listened, I glanced at Tina—her face was white.

“Hi Mrs. Cox,” said the detective, “I just called to let you know that Mrs. Stone was in a car accident last night. Must’ve been right after she left your facility, around—” his voice trailed off as he shuffled papers, “oh, here it is; yeah, it says here it was around one-ish, maybe shortly after.”

“One AM?” I asked?

“Yes.”

“Okay, so she’s okay, right? I mean, she was here this morning—I spoke with her myself…”

Silence. “Uh, no ma’am, that would be impossible. The accident was fatal. Mrs. Stone was pronounced dead at the scene.”

I dropped the phone on the counter and Tina quickly retrieved it, thanked the officer and hung up. Another thud popped the receptionist off her chair—it was the journal that slipped from my hand. She picked it up and handed it to me without a word. I looked at her, my mouth gaping open, devoid of words.

Rachel, read this before you go to court today. That’s what she told me. Mrs. Stone said that to me this morning. Mrs. Stone put this journal in my hands this morning.

Though Mrs. Stone’s death explained the behavior of my staff, the rest was a mass of mystery for quite some time. I still don’t know after all these years what happened that day, but I’ve read Mrs. Stone’s journal many times since and you might be surprised to learn that me and Steve never divorced.

Somehow, through the story of Mr. and Mrs. Russell Stone, I learned that love is impossible as long as it is focused on me, my rights, my needs and my desires. The minute I began loving Steve like Mrs. Stone loved Mr. Stone, I discovered the mystery behind this bizarre couple. To the world, Russell Stone existed as an un-lived life, a waste, a fake; non-deserving of his wife’s love. But in reality, he was a prisoner, condemned to serve his abuser’s sentence. Mrs. Stone understood that and gave up her life so he could be free.

I discovered something else from Mrs. Stone: real love doesn’t demand reciprocation. It flows freely, extravagantly and unconditionally; it gives new life to the “un-lived.”

The End

Author’s Note: Did you enjoy this novelette? Please let me know. Jot me an e-mail at: cheryl@semickinc.com or send a letter to the Community Word Editor. You can read parts the whole novelette online at:www.thecommunityword.com/online – click on Doors & Windows), or watch this column for news on getting a copy of it in print. Have a Merry Christmas & a Happy New Year!

We sit on the couch an inch apart, a sea between us.

He grips my hand as a line thrown to a drowning man ~

The weight of his fear threatens to pull me under.

I slam the journal shut and stuff it back in my briefcase. My veins fill with rage that instantly boils; its heat stings my limbs and I feel my mouth could spit flames if someone were to speak to me. I jump up, grab my stuff and march around the center’s sidewalk to cool off. Get a grip, Rachel!

I reach the gazebo in the middle of the serene private park behind our center where the Stone’s spent every afternoon—no matter what the weather. It was a gift from the couple, a parcel of land they had donated a dozen years ago or so. A portion of their quarterly donation goes to upkeep and it’s a huge selling point for prospective residents. I made sure my office window faced the luscious foliage the minute I accepted the promotion to director.

I drink in the fall colors stuffed in that small piece of real estate: leaves on fire, some golden delicious, others as orange as pumpkins; deep purples and maroons all in concert—one last crescendo before the show ends and winter clears the stage.

I open the screen door to the gazebo and lower my numb body onto the bench inside. What did they talk about out in here every afternoon? I play back scenes in my mind of times I watched them from my office window walking hand-in-hand to this place and try to recall if I ever saw them speak at all. I reach for the journal and lay it on my lap. It falls open on its own.

Here we are safe, untouched by the lie

Just you and me, my love, safe from its rule.

Tell me what it is about here ~

What is it that gives you peace in this place?

I don’t need to know, my love

Don’t try to speak ~

For here your mind can rest, if only for an hour

Here we are safe, untouched by the lie.

I glance up at the title of the piece and I freeze: Gazebo. How freaky is that? How does a page from a journal just fall open to a poem about the very place where I am sitting? This thing is going back to Mrs. Stone a.s.a.p. This is just too weird.

I look at my watch; it’s 10:45. She could still be in Mr. Stone’s room packing his stuff. I scurry back around to the front of the center and into the lobby. Tina’s tilted back in her chair behind the reception desk texting on her iPhone and laughing at something someone is saying into her earpiece. I should fire that girl.

She sees me and tosses her phone on the counter. Now in an upright position, Tina cuts off her caller and says, “Here are some messages for you Ms. Cox.” I take the slips from her hand.

“Tina, is Mrs. Stone still in Mr. Stone’s room?”

The girl’s mouth is open but nothing comes out. She looks at the phone messages in my hand and then back up at my eyes. “Uh, Mrs. Stone?”

“Yes, Tina, Mrs. Stone. Is she still here? I was just with her in Mr. Stone’s room an hour-and-a-half ago. I want to know if she’s still here.”

Tina looks at me like I’m one of the Alzheimer’s residents. What is this girl’s problem?!

To be continued….

(read parts one through ten online at: www.thecommunityword.com/online – click on Doors & Windows)

When lies are love and love is a lie

When truth is pain one can’t deny

How does a heart fulfill its vow

When fear refuses to allow

The lie to live within its walls

Or let grace heal us when it calls

“Rachel?” My attorney sits down next to me as if to wake me from a deep sleep; his voice sounds distant and muffled. I look at him and can see in his eyes that I have changed.

“Rachel, they’ve cancelled our hearing and they can’t give us a reschedule date so I’ll call you, okay?”

I nod my head, unconnected from the news that my dissolution was again delayed. Steve had still not arrived and for some odd reason that bothered me, not in a disgust sort of way but more like a longing—like I wished he were there.

“Are you okay?” Jeff’s face was closer now, his look tense.

“Yeah—yes, I’m okay.”

“I don’t believe you,” he said, standing up and straightening his tie. “Let’s stop by Sully’s for a drink, my treat.”

Normally, I would have relished such an offer—especially from him—but this wasn’t an offer; he sensed something had changed in me and it unsettled him. Something had changed, but neither of us knew what it was.

“No thanks,” I said as I stuffed Mrs. Stone’s journal in my briefcase. “I need to get back to work. There are some issues that need my attention and a pile on my desk that won’t go away unless I show up …”

“You’re dodging,” he interjected. “What’s going on Rachel?”

We board the elevator with another attorney and client pair, orbiting some crucial strategy for their case and I clam up. The lines from that last poem have me paralyzed. I wrestle under its tethers—its voice screaming at my soul in a faint whisper: When fear refuses to allow …

My mind butts into the conversation and attempts to apply logic: Is that what is wrong with me? Did I drive Steve away because I was afraid his love for me was a lie? Have I not extended years of grace to him already? When is it time to move on?

“Rachel, I insist, let me buy you a drink, we can take my car,” Jeff takes me by the elbow and escorts me off the elevator. I’m in such a trance I don’t resist and now we’re in his Jaguar heading to Sully’s.

“No,” I say.

“No? No what?” Jeff swings into a space in the parking deck and puts the car in park.

“No, I can’t be here—with you—I can’t do this.”

He laughs, “It’s a drink, Rachel, not a date. C’mon.” I don’t move and he lets a few seconds pass to see if my decision wavers. It doesn’t. He starts his car back up and pulls onto Main Street. Nothing more is said between us and by 10:10 a.m. I’m back in the parking lot at the Afterglow Journey Center. I don’t look back as Jeff pulls away; I sit on the bench outside the front door, numb and captive to words I’ve never heard. They are foreign and faint, yet strong and powerful—and I’m listening.

To be continued….

(read parts one through nine online at: www.thecommunityword.com/online – click on Doors & Windows)

The first poem in Mrs. Stone’s journal was short, but drenched with pain—my pain. Betrayal and lies all wrapped up in a cloak of romance. It stung, and dredged up nasty memories of when Steve first rode into my life like a prince. How hard I fell for his deceptions!

My cell rang and pulled me from the prose.

“Rachel, your case got moved to 9:45. Where are you?”

It was my attorney. Great guy—why didn’t he ride into my life instead of Steve?

“I’m still at the office. We had a passing last night and I had to meet with the widow. I’ll be right there.”

“Okay. Steve’s not here yet.”

“Big surprise. See ya,” I said, and clicked off. I shoved my cell into my briefcase along with Mrs. Stone’s journal. The courthouse is just blocks from my office so I determined to jump right back into those poems as soon as I could.

The courthouse is crazy. Seems everyone is suing someone, but no one wants to be here. My heart rate rises at each floor on the elevator. I watch the numbers change. Four is where my marriage will be declared dead. I hope Steve isn’t here yet.

My attorney is pacing by the elevator doors as I step from them with a dozen other nervous souls. He grabs my elbow and leads me quickly to a bench. We drop and he barrels into typical, 90 mph lawyer-speak.

“Slow down Jeff, I don’t even know the meaning of half those words!” He sighs.

“Rachel, if Steve doesn’t show up, we can still go forward with the divorce. I’ll ask the judge for favor, given that you have been amicable throughout this process and I think he’ll go for it. I don’t think Steve has any more leverage to stop this again.”

I shudder. The past year-and-a-half of motions, continuances and the deposition damaged my emotions beyond anything I had experienced in my life. Why won’t he just let go of me?

“Okay. Good plan, thanks Jeff.” I pulled Mrs. Stone’s journal from my briefcase, un-wrapped the cord from around its cover and leaned back against the stark white wall.

“Where’d you get that?” Jeff asked.

“From someone at the facility. It’s poetry.”

Jeff raised his brows, “Looks valuable.” I smiled, catching his sarcasm. He knew I was not the poetry type and I detected his curiosity as to this odd distraction.

My eyes found the second poem. A lump formed in my throat as its first line: When lies are love and love is a lie …

I sensed a hunger form deep inside—I need something from this book. If you had asked me on that day what I was looking for in its pages, I couldn’t have told you. I just had this strange ache inside me; a strong force that held my wrist as I dangled over a deadly precipice. I wanted to do nothing but read that journal. I looked at my watch. It was 9:20 AM. Still no Steve.

To be continued….

(read parts one through eight online at: www.thecommunityword.com/online – click on Doors & Windows)

___________________

The anger rising in me was shocking. I wanted to run like villagers do when the volcano they live by day in and day out starts rumbling. Mrs. Stone could see the eruption forming on my face. Still, she calmly continued.

“People judge these unlived lives as actors, manipulators or lazy bums, having no idea that they are starving for an ounce of acceptance and love in any form. They remain children in their mind with no definition for what drives them or what was stolen from them; they just know they are different from everyone else.”

I felt punched in the stomach and filled with shame. I held her gaze so she couldn’t see that I am one of those judges; that I am only an hour away from dumping such a soul.

“But why did you marry him, knowing he could never be a real husband to you?” I asked. She took in a deep breath; a strange peace engulfed me as she exhaled, something I still can’t explain, though I’ve rolled it over and over in my mind ever since.

“I didn’t know all this when I married him. He seemed as normal as any man,” said Mrs. Stone through tears. “At first I felt deceived, but to honor my vows, I had to love him unconditionally as I am loved by my Creator; that is only fair, don’t you think?”

I shrugged, non-committed. I wasn’t a religious person, but I had to agree that if the Creator loves me unconditionally, I should give my fellow man the same courtesy. I mean, that made sense, I guess. Don’t get me wrong, I’m a moral, good, considerate person. I obey the law and all, but her take on it seemed unrealistic.

“But how could you play along with it all? It doesn’t seem fair to you,” I said, my voice now pleading, my mind oblivious to the clock.

“Over time I learned that his feigned normalcy was more than just an act—it was a desperate cry for help,” she said. “I knew that my love for Russell had to be bigger than me. It had to reach beyond my romantic dreams, beyond my rights as a woman, as a wife. I had to love him more than he could ever love me.”

I choked. Shaking my head I pushed all these super woman ideals as far away from me as I could. She had no idea that Steve and Mr. Stone were one and the same and I wasn’t about to tell her. I needed to extricate myself from the Stone’s upside-down world and focus on my court date. I glanced up at the clock. It’s 8:40 a.m.

“I’m sorry Mrs. Stone. With all due respect, I have a 9:00 a.m. meeting I can’t miss. Please forgive me for rushing off like this. The staff will help you with the paperwork we need you to complete before Mr. Stone’s burial. I will call you later today.”

Mrs. Stone smiled serenely and looked down at the journal in her hands. My hand was on the door handle when she called my name. I turned around.

“Please take this and read it before you go to court.”

I gave her a sideways look as I took the journal from her trembling hand. How did she know my ‘meeting’ was in court?

To be continued….

(read parts one through six online at:

http://thecommunityword.com/online/blog/category/columns/doors-and-windows/)

The ink on the page dripped with pain. I read it again…

He died at 8

The funeral was at 12.

He emerged a zombie at 18

Married at 21.

It died at 24.

The second wedding

Was ’94.

5 years later it too dissolved.

Now he lies with me –

Un-alive at 53.

Mr. Stone died at eight? Our records show 1:03. She dated this last night, so he was still alive; must be years. I knew Mr. Stone had been married prior to marrying Mrs. Stone, but twice before? And what’s the whole zombie thing?

My thoughts were interrupted.

“Rachel?”

I jumped at her voice, her journal stuck in my hands, my gaping mouth void of words. Mrs. Stone stood staring at me from across the room. I have no recall of hearing the door open or close.

“Do you want to know?” She whispered.

I could only nod.

She crossed the room, took the book from my hands and alighted on her late husband’s bed. Stroking the fresh bedspread, she unfolded the unlived life of Russell Stone.

My soul is not big enough to contain all that Mrs. Stone relayed to me that day; much of it fell on the floor, never to be heard by another ear. What lodged in me was an education far beyond my Ph.D.

“In ancient times, invading armies would rob the city’s temple, take all its holy objects and burn it to the ground. Such practice was strategic. These barbarians knew that in desecrating the sanctuary, they could subdue the entire nation and cripple their soul.

“It is no different today, though invasions are far more clandestine. Savages infiltrate homes and rob the temples of children—the holy objects of their precious souls: innocence, trust, a pure connection to God, are all pillaged and defiled in the most heinous way. These children survive physically but live unlived lives.

“Mr. Stone was a victim of sexual child abuse?” I whispered. She nodded, her eyes on the floor.

I’m sorry to say I couldn’t find much pity for the deceased. Don’t get me wrong, I am repulsed by such crimes and fiercely advocate the death penalty for sexual child abusers. But Mrs. Stone’s revelation didn’t add up. Mr. Stone’s behavior contradicted the archetypal sexual abuse victim. He exuded confidence, a gentleman’s gentleman; a self-made man.

I looked at the clock. I had a half-hour to get to the courthouse to finalize my divorce and could not afford to partake in her drama another minute.

But I admit I had a more personal reason for keeping pity for Mr. Stone at bay. It just so happens that this same story is what drove me to file for a divorce from Steven.

To be continued….

(read parts one through five online at:

http://thecommunityword.com/online/blog/category/columns/doors-and-windows/)

I’m still in shock. How can I explain this? We walked into the room. Mrs. Stone stood right beside me and stared at her husband’s body. Now understand that at this point, most widows gasp, choke on their tears and convulse as a fountain of emotion begins to erupt. They walk or run to the body. Some will kneel and gently caress the corpse’s cold hand, pat it and whisper loving words. Most spend a few moments of private good-bye, then express their gratitude for our respectful treatment of their loved one’s remains and leave.

Not Mrs. Stone. She laughed! That woman stood there and laughed! But it wasn’t a funny, ha, ha, type of laugh. It was maniacal. It was borderline evil. It was extremely bizarre; goose bumps scurried over my skin. She lifted her arm and stretched it out like a sword; it was fully extended all the way to the tip of her accusing index finger.

“You lost!” she screamed. “You lost!” Her laugh deepened into a sneering mock. “You stole my life and now I am free and you can never, ever, ever steal from me again!”

I grabbed her arm and tried to push it down, thinking she was out of control. “Mrs. Stone, why don’t we go into another room?” I whispered. I thought I would just usher her out of the room, give her a glass of water and bring her back into her right mind, but her arm was as hard as steel.

“You liar!” She shrieked, still pointing her sword at poor Mr. Stone’s body. “You thought I didn’t know your game, didn’t you! Oh, but I did, the whole time. And now you lose.”

“Mrs. Stone, please,” I insisted, “Let’s go sit down in the other room.” She lowered her arm and I thought she was going to turn and follow me when I heard—no, I felt a swish. I jumped at it; the hairs on my neck stood at attention.

Mrs. Stone was lying on top of Mr. Stone’s body, kissing it, caressing it! It was morbid, disgusting!

I freaked.

I ran from the room and in no particular direction. I was nauseous. I couldn’t accept the sight of that woman getting passionate with her husband’s corpse. When I left the bathroom, I realized I was in Mr. Stone’s former room on Angie’s unit. I don’t know how long I was there or why.

I collapsed on a chair, my heart racing, mind spinning. I don’t really recall much about that moment except the leather journal on his nightstand. It was open, Mrs. Stone’s pen, uncapped, lay across its pages.

What drew me to it is still unclear, but the poem appeared penned just moments before I arrived, as I smeared a stroke with my thumb as I lifted it off the table. Its lines capture and confuse me; its mystery clouds my mind and I soon forgot about my nine o’clock court date.

To be continued….

(read parts one through four online at: www.thecommunityword.com/online/doorsandwindows)

My anger rose to another level by the time I reached the first floor. I determined that whoever made that call will feel its full force.

“Hi Ms. Cox, is everything okay?” Tina, our facility receptionist, popped out of her chair at the sound of my heels grinding across the lobby’s ceramic tile.

“No, Tina, it is not,” I shot back as I marched past her desk toward Mr. Stone’s nursing unit. Angie would be my first victim. I heard Tina pick-up her phone as I rounded the corner, undoubtedly to warn the unit that I was on my way.

I spotted Angie on the phone when I approached the unit desk and knew by her stance that she had in fact been alerted.

“Hi Rachel,” she said coolly as she set the phone back on the hook. “Everything okay?”

“Who called Mrs. Stone?”

“No one here called her. Kevin said you would,” she answered. For some reason, I believed her.

“I did,” I snapped, “but she already knew. Now, how do you suppose she knew if I’m the only one who called her?”I didn’t wait for an answer. I swallowed my rage and decided it could simmer while I focused on my own crisis. I checked my watch, 7:45 a.m. Angie knew me well enough to know that this discussion was so not over and quickly caught up with me.

“Rachel, I’m sorry, I know you think I hate the Stones, but I am telling you the truth, I didn’t call her!”

“I believe you, Angie” I told her, but held my pace. The Stone saga had seeped too far into my mind and I no longer cared. “Just get back to your shift.” Angie stopped and stood in the hall. No telling what was going through her mind, and I didn’t care about that either. I had a death report to fill out and file before I left for the courthouse; the rest could wait.

Tina picked up the phone as I appeared in the lobby and pretended to have a legitimate conversation; do they think I’m stupid? I know it’s Angie reporting back. I crossed the reception desk and there at the front door was Mrs. Stone.

“Rachel,” she said, her voice merely a breath.

“Mrs. Stone!” I embraced her and offered my condolences for her loss.

“Rachel, may I see him?”

I opened my mouth but nothing came out. I had been so wrapped up in finding out who called her that I had no idea whether or not his body had been placed in our Afterglow room for viewing.

“Honestly, I’m not sure, why don’t you sit here in the lobby and I’ll go find out.”

“May I wait in his room?” she asked.

“Oh, of course, yes, please,” I took her by the arm and led her back to her husband’s room. Tina was still on the phone and I made out enough of her statements to know that another warning had been sent to the unit of approaching doom.

Mrs. Stone had a peculiar look on her face, a calmness about her that was puzzling for someone who had just lost their beloved spouse. I brushed it off and left her alone in the late Mr. Stone’s room while I searched for answers on his whereabouts.

At 8:00 a.m., I ushered Mrs. Stone to the Afterglow room where our staff had laid the body of the deceased and lit candles all around the room; soft, ethereal music welcomed the grieving widow. What happened next shocked me so profoundly, I still can’t shake the image from my mind.

To be continued….

(read parts one – three online: www.thecommunityword.com/online/doorsandwindows)