"I turned around and you weren't there."

She delivers the line after exiting a small-town grocery store ahead of him. Leaning against a vending machine for the local newspaper, she tucks a blonde flyaway behind her ear. Her grin is sweet.

"One day that's exactly how it will be, you know."

He is older, with several close calls in his rearview. At least one left scars, and a couple left bruises that never quite healed.

Her smile doesn't fade, but sadness tugs at the edges.

He takes her by the hand, and they're both happy to love in the moment.

by

Wilkinson Riling

Every game felt like a symphony to eighteen-year-old Kelvin White. The chirp of athletic shoes braking on the parquet floor. The rhythmic drumming of a dribbled basketball pounding on wood, building tension as he planned his approach to the hoop. All the while surrounded by a cacophony of whistles and whoops and thunderous applause inside the Lower Merion High School Gymnasium just outside Philadelphia where, in this orchestration, Kelvin was the conductor, leading the players down the court, directing the drive with a pass here, a pick there, finishing off with a cymbal-like crash on the basket.

The young black man's concert hall this evening was the Kobe Bryant Gymnasium named after the famous alumni. Bryant’s high school jersey banner, number thirty-three, hung from the very rafters under which Kelvin performed. Kelvin White had dreams of living to see his own number sixty-four hanging right next to it. This night’s quarter final game against Chester would see that dream realized sooner than expected, not because of his Bryant-breaking record with 2,897 points, but of something totally unforeseen.

This playoff game against Chester High School was as dramatic as any Beethoven opus. The rivalry between the two teams went back years and many passions stirred. The gym was packed to spill over with fans from both schools. In the stands things got heated as the game clock wound down on a tight score. A fight broke out in the bleachers between a group of students and a rowdy bunch of Chester supporters who had no affiliation to either school. In the melee, one of the fans, a gang banger from across town pulled a gun from his waist band. How he got past the metal detectors was a question for later; no acceptable answer was ever given.

Shots rang out followed by bedlam. A tsunami of fear caused a stampede for the exits. More people were injured by falls and being trampled than from gun fire. Still, three bullets found targets before the gun was wrestled away and the perpetrator beaten to within an inch of his life. A middle-aged woman near the top of the bleachers on the far side of the gym was struck in the arm. On the floor, a referee caught a slug in his hip. Only by the grace of God, it was said, no one died. Yet, what were the odds that in the middle of a possible game winning lay-up, the final round fired from the .45 caliber weapon would strike a young team captain down?

Kelvin White lay wounded beneath the basket unable to move, surrounded by teammates forming a protective barrier. An opposing player removed his jersey trying to stop the blood loss from the gunshot wound in Kelvin’s spine. For his part, Kelvin felt no pain. His face lay sideways on the parquet floor with Kelvin paralyzed, trying to look back at what was happening behind him, trying to remain calm. His eye locked onto the single jersey banner hanging from the rafter above. A tear slipped down his cheek onto the floor.

“I ain’t going! You can’t make me!” Kelvin shouted. Nine months had passed since the Lower Merion Mass Shooting as it was called in the media. Kelvin White, the once promising athlete with scholarships and endorsement contracts in his future, found himself a paraplegic living with his uncle in a West Philly row home. Thanks to an incredibly successful GoFundMe page they were able to remodel the house for handicapped access with an access ramp, safety bars in the bathroom and throughout, plus a pulley system to assist in transferring from bed to wheelchair. The living room was now converted into Kelvin’s bedroom. The wheelchair, too, was purchased from the donated funds. That’s not to say maneuvering within the home was easy. The two-story structure was narrow as was its entrance. That fact made it easier for Kelvin to brace himself and keep his wheelchair from moving forward as his Uncle Nate futilely pushed from behind.

“Please, Kelvin, this is your night.” Nate Gorman, his maternal uncle cajoled. Nate stepped into a parental role after his sister Rhonda, Kelvin’s mother, was incarcerated for larceny. She had written bad checks on her employer’s account to the tune of a five-figure amount. She was sentenced to five years at a Lehigh Valley Woman’s Prison. That happened two years before the tragedy. Part of Kelvin’s drive to succeed was to make sure his mother never had to steal again. Kelvin never knew his father. Nate never tried to fill that role, but a more dedicated uncle and brother you couldn’t find. “The school is honoring you.” Nate reminded him.

“You mean they’re pitying me.” Kelvin shot back. “I don’t need their pity.”

“Yes you do! You need their pity! And you need their charity! We’re barely staying afloat now with all the medical bills and lawyer fees!” Nate pulled Kelvin back into the house and spoke into his ear. “How long do you think I’d keep this house if I missed a mortgage payment? My postal salary alone won’t cut this. We need that GoFundMe money to provide you with care until the lawsuit is final. Now I’ll clean your ass everyday until hell freezes over without bitching. The least you can do is help see we both don’t end up homeless.”

Kelvin let go of the doorway lowering his head with a sigh.

N offered a simple, “Thank you.” He pushed Kelvin out toward the awaiting van and chair lift.

The crowd at the gymnasium couldn’t have been more enthusiastic. Kelvin and Nate entered from a side door. “All I Do is Win” by DJ Khaled blasted from the speakers. Applause rolled like a wave through the gym as people recognized Kelvin. Reporters from three local channels with camera crews were present. Nate had already vetoed any interviews. Principal Harold Stark guided the pair to center court where two dozen folding chairs set on a black carpet were aligned in rows. They contained Kelvin’s coaches, teammates and teachers from last season. A rectangular black drape about three feet wide hung inches off the floor lit by a single spot. A video they were to show of Kelvin’s basketball play had been nixed at the last minute and replaced with a sole high school photo, Kelvin, waist up with an ear-to-ear grin wearing his letterman jacket.

Coach Martin Devers stood at the podium to speak on the occasion. He spoke of meeting Kelvin as a freshman recruited from Our Mother of Sorrows Catholic Grade School where Kelvin was a star athlete in several sports and about how he was blown away by Kelvin’s determination and drive. He told how Kelvin’s mother explained that she named him after the temperature measuring Kelvin scale because of his inner fire—his ability to go from absolute zero bringing energy and intensity to whatever he does. The coach spent the next several minutes highlighting Kelvin’s statistical accomplishments, ending with, “…Kelvin White, number sixty-four is only the second number here at Lower Merion to be retired, thank you for honoring our school with that privilege.”

With that, the black drape was pulled aside revealing a large maroon and white banner with the block numbers “sixty-four” five feet high and crowned with the name “WHITE.” The DJ set up by the bleachers played Boys to Men’s slow torch song “The End of the Road.” The crowd listened solemnly. Kelvin watched his jersey, followed by a spotlight, ascend like a ghost. Tears began to fill his eyes. His teammate, assistant captain Earnest Stitt, could see the vibe was all wrong. He jumped from his chair toward the DJ, accidentally tilting the folding chair which smacked the floor with a crack as loud as a gunshot. Kelvin’s head shook at the sudden noise. Stitt admonished the DJ. The song quickly changed to “Motown Philly” and the crowd began to applaud as Kelvin’s number took its spot next to Kobe Bryant’s jersey banner. Still startled by the noise, Kelvin’s mind was somewhere else, he reached over to Nate. “Take me home.”

Nate leaned in. “What’s wrong?”

Kelvin shielded his face with a hand to his brow. “Get me out of here. Take me home, now. Don’t you ever bring me back here.” For Kelvin it was a bitter reminder of what he once was and believed he would never be again, a champion.

Nate could see Kelvin’s urine bag on the side of the wheelchair beginning to fill. He leapt up, pulled a 360 with Kelvin’s chair while at the same time apologizing to Principal Stark and Coach Devers for their hasty exit. The crowd watched in confusion wondering if the ceremony was over. Nate and Kelvin made for the exit. The gym doors closed behind them to a smattering of perplexed applause.

Another three months had passed. Nate, when not at work, had a neighbor check in on Kelvin. He was concerned Kelvin was showing the signs of an agoraphobic. He refused to leave the house, had to be coerced to bathe and spent his days watching television shows from the 70’s, reruns of reruns, which is how his days were beginning to feel. But the house was beginning to smell like a nursing home, and Nate was going to change that on this Saturday.

“Wake up, your going out today.” His uncle opened the living room blinds letting the sun in for the first time in months.

Kelvin shielded his eyes with both arms. “I ain’t going nowhere. There’s a Sanford and Son marathon today.”

“Either you’re going outside, or the TV is going out in the trash and Lamont can come and get it. You don’t want to test me on this.”

Kelvin peeked out from under his arms to see his uncle’s angry face. Kelvin shook his head in surrender.

An hour and a half later Uncle Nate pulled the van into a handicap space at Clark Park in West Philly. After parking, he lowered Kelvin and his wheelchair down on the lift. They entered the park and stopped. “Now what?” Kelvin grumbled.

“Now you can get yourself some exercise. I’m gonna go play some bocce ball with my friends over there.” A group of men Nate’s age were rolling colored balls across the grass in a game of bocce. Kelvin watched the group greet Nate with smiles, hugs and laughter.

“Looks like fun, why don’t you play?” The voice came from behind Kelvin. It sounded like Morgan Freeman had just eaten a stick of butter; it was deep and smooth and gentle. Kelvin spun around in his wheelchair. A black man, in his seventies, thin and lanky wearing a fedora was sitting on a green checkered folding chair by a table-high block of stone. Kelvin saw several other stone blocks with men seated apart, all playing chess. “Unless you prefer a bigger challenge.” His large hand gestured to chess pieces lined up ready for battle. “My opponent quit. He tired of losing. You ever get tired of losing?”

“No.” Kelvin spun his back to the man.

“I guess it’s hard to tire of losing if you’re too scared to get in the game in the first place.” The velvet voice mocked.

Kelvin retorted. “I never played chess before. Make it checkers and I’ll whip your skinny ass.”

“I can teach you in no time.” The man replied with confidence.

Kelvin turned and wheeled over; the man removed a chair to make space. “Samuel Simutowe. Pleased to meet you…?”

“White. Kelvin White.”

“Okay, Mr. White. Let’s start you off with the white pieces then, shall we? White gets first move.” He turned the board placing the white pieces in front of Kelvin. “Now the first thing you need to know is there are sixty-four squares on the chessboard. Thirty-two light, Thirty-two dark.”

“Sixty-four?”

“Yes, why do you have a problem with that?” Sam asked.

Kelvin thought it odd it matched his jersey number. “No.”

“Good. Now, we each have sixteen chessmen lined up for battle. Your goal is to capture my King while preventing me from capturing yours. Think you can do that?”

Kelvin pointed to the chess pieces. “Just tell me how these things move, Grady.”

Sam leaned back. “Grady? Who’s Grady?”

The man reminded Kelvin of the character in Sanford and Son. “I meant, Sam. Now show me.”

In under an hour, Kelvin had learned the rudimentary aspects of the game enough to put a smile on his face when he moved a bishop into place and firmly said, “Check.”

Sam looked at the board, indeed he was in check, and he was in trouble. His hand went to his chin as he surveyed the battle field.

Kelvin pushed. “C’mon, move.”

Sam lowered his hand to his king holding a finger on it deciding where to move.

Kelvin grew impatient. “C’mon.”

Sam took his finger off the king and pinched his black knight. He lifted it and toppled Kelvin’s white bishop. He took the piece. “Checkmate.”

With a swing of his arm Kelvin cleared the table scattering the pieces to the ground.

“Son, you’ve got to learn to lose better than that.”

“Don’t tell me about losing. I lost everything, old man.”

Sam pointed to his own head. “You didn’t lose this. I can see you lost use of your legs, for that I’m sorry.”

Kelvin snapped. “I don’t need your pity, Grady.”

“But if you lost this.” Sam pointed to his own heart. “That’s completely on you.” There was silence. “So, what do you say? Rematch?”

Kelvin tilted his head with a look of disdain. “Fine.”

Sam stood up. “Okay, then. You sit there, leave me to pick up the pieces.”

Two hours later, Nate approached a small crowd gathered around his nephew who was talking with a stranger and playing chess. Behind the spectators Nate peeked over a shoulder just in time to see Kelvin declare, “Checkmate.” Murmurs of surprised approval ricocheted within the group; money exchanged hands.

Nate stepped in. “Kelvin, what’s going on here?”

“This your son?” Sam asked Nate.

“My nephew.” He extended a hand. “Nate Gorman.”

“Pleased to meet you. I guess you can call me Grady.” He looked at Kelvin. “That was the bet, wasn’t it? You get to call me Grady if you win?”

Kelvin smiled and nodded. Nate double blinked. He hadn’t seen a smile on Kelvin in about a year.

“Nate, your nephew here is a natural born chess player. I wouldn’t be surprised if he could achieve an Elo rating of 2000. He sees the board three moves ahead. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“Yeah. He was like that on the basketball cour…” Nate cut his sentence short letting it drift into the ether. But it was too late, it still made Kelvin wince. Wishing he could take it back; Nate cleared his throat, changing the subject. “What do you mean Elo rating?”

Sam began to pack his chess pieces away. “It’s a rating system named after a Hungarian physics professor Arpad Elo, a chess master. A 2000 Elo would qualify Kelvin to join The Philadelphia Chess Club one of the most prestigious in the country. This could open him up to timed tournament play and monetary awards.” On that he folded the board and stood and shook hands with Kelvin. “Mr. White, it was a privilege.”

Kelvin backed up. “Thanks, Mr. Simutowe, but I think we’ll pass on tournaments. Unk, I want to go home now.”

Their familiar silence followed them on the way to the van. Nate spoke first, “Kelvin I didn’t mean to dredge up…”

“It’s okay, Unk. I’m just tired. Let’s come back tomorrow and hear more of what Sam has to say. At best, it’ll give me something to do.”

In the coming weeks, Sam helped Kelvin prepare to qualify for acceptance into the Philadelphia Chess Club. It required him to win club sanctioned tournaments. This included local, regional, national and invitational tourneys with an added wrinkle of needing to learn how to play timed games and how to manage the clock. Kelvin would be pitted against opponents the with highest Elo ratings in order to advance his rank quickly to gain acceptance into the prestigious club.

For the next nine months Kelvin played in seven local tournaments, five regional, traversing three states, against a total of thirty-five high ranking players each with an Elo above 1900 resulting in Kelvin achieving an Elo score of 1800, 200 shy of the required ranking of 2000. His ranking was still good enough to rate him a Class A player and procure a seat at the Invitational Chess Tournament in Atlantic City.

Nate, Kelvin and Sam loaded into the van to make the hour-long ride to the beach side resort. Their first stop was the tournament pairings board. The pairings were chosen randomly from the pool of qualifying players. At the board Sam ran a finger down the list then groaned. “Fuck. Sinclair Beaumont. What are the odds?”

Nate asked. “Who is he?”

“Just a chess master with an Elo rating of 2100.” He turned to Kelvin. “Who happens to be president of The Philadelphia Chess Club.”

“Fine. Let’s kick some ass!” Kelvin smiled but got no reaction from Sam, who understood just how badly the odds were stacked against Kelvin.

Kelvin took his place at the tournament table awaiting his opponent. Heads turned as a man entered the room and crossed the playing floor toward Kelvin. Sinclair Beaumont was a balding thirty-year-old, tall and thin with a hawkish nose tilted as if sniffing the air before him following a noxious scent. He seemed to walk on his heels while his arms had little sway to them. He sat down across from Kelvin like a marionette lowering into a chair. His accent was old money Philadelphian as if Katherine Hepburn’s voice were male. Without looking at him, he addressed Kelvin. “I understand you’re the West Philadelphian wunderkind.”

Kelvin reached a hand out to greet him that was ignored with a wave from Sinclair who had one eyebrow raised in disgust. “Yes, let’s acknowledge we’re both gentleman, but let’s not forget this is more or less a duel to the death, for I am going to kill any chance that a flash in the pan, street bred amateur, and son of a felon, like you, has of joining our prestigious club.”

"Well, fuck you too." Kelvin thought in silence.

Sinclair gestured to the official holding the lots that determine who goes first. “After you, Mr. White.” Kelvin reached into the box and pulled out a black chess piece.

Sinclair removed the white. “Looks like I shoot first.”

The game was a best of five timed match with each player under a clock and their color designation selected after each game. They were at a main table and drew a small crowd around them. Kelvin lost the first match in what seemed to be a blink of an eye. They drew for color again and once more Kelvin selected black. Game two was longer if not closer. Kelvin lasted for a time even after losing his queen. But the clock added a pressure he wasn’t used to. He was now down two games to nothing and was looking like their trip would soon come to an end. In the back of the room a gust of ocean wind pushed open a door slamming it against the wall with a bang. Kelvin shuddered. The noise was the gunshot sound all over again in his mind. Kelvin froze, now mentally paralyzed in fear.

Sinclair Beaumont leaned back in his chair. “Perhaps you’d like to resign? A forfeit at this stage is quite understandable.”

Kelvin could only mouth the question. “What?”

Nate could see Kelvin's urine bag filling. He leaned down, “You okay, Kelvin? You want me to take you home?”

Sam leaned down on the other side. “It’s okay, son. There’s no shame in a withdrawal at this point. It happens all the time.”

Kelvin gathered himself, steadied his breathing. He turned to Sam, "Grady, I got this."

He reached over to the lot box. For a third time Kelvin randomly selected the black chess pieces. This gave the advantage of first move, once again, to Beaumont.

The next two games, Kelvin, playing black and despite the disadvantage of moving second, eked out both wins, stunning Beaumont and changing the momentum. Sinclair Beaumont turned to the arbiter and requested a break to use the restroom. An unusual request but not unheard of.

When Sinclair returned Kelvin noticed white flecks of powder in the corner of his flared avian nostril. The next several games were played with Sinclair making his moves in rapid succession while Kelvin tried to slow the clock to control the pace, much like he had done when playing basketball. Each one of the tie breaking games ended in stalemate. Both players were beginning to tire the frustration of tie after tie affecting them both.

After a third stalemate and before the next lot draw Sinclair spoke ominously. “Armageddon Game.”

Sam explained to Kelvin what it was. “In an Armageddon Game the “white” player or player with the white pieces, has the privilege of a full extra minute of time to make his move. In return, should the game end in yet another stalemate, the “black” player is automatically declared the winner.”

Kelvin accepted the terms. He drew the white chess piece. Sinclair smiled still confident, “It appears the privilege is yours.”

If Beaumont was expecting Kelvin to use the extra time allotted to him to slow the game, he was mistaken. Kelvin reversed strategy. Kelvin’s moves were quick, precise and ruthless. It was Sinclair Beaumont who was stumbling trying to keep pace and control his clock at the same time.

Kelvin hadn’t needed the extra time, he attacked with a blitz mentality. Once again, Beaumont took his queen, a crippling blow by all appearances. Only the queen wasn’t so much “lost” as it was sacrificed. The play matched one of the most beautiful and daring moves in chess history known as “The Immortal Game.” In 1851 Adolf Anderssen playing against Lionel Kieseritzky sacrificed his queen to deliver a decisive checkmate a few moves later. Which is just what Kelvin did.

Two moves later Kelvin stated, “Checkmate. Guess I’ll be seeing you at the club.” Backed by a confident smile.

Sinclair’s arm swept his pieces off the table and stood. “Send in your application I’ll get to it when I get to it.” His chair scraped the floor as he turned in a huff and left.

Kelvin smiled at Sam. “Grady, he’s got to learn to lose better than that.”

The ride home took forty-five minutes and was filled with tales of the day’s events and laughter. They dropped Sam off at the park. Kelvin handed him the trophy, “Sam, I want you to have this. It’s as much yours as it is mine.”

Sam refused at first until he told Sam it be easier if he brought it to the park to show off. He could use it to recruit more kids into the game of chess. Sam agreed and thanked Kelvin.

Nate and Kelvin headed for home. Nate asked Kelvin why he gave the trophy away.

“I dunno. It was never really the trophy I was chasing, now was it?” With that he leaned his head against the window and let his mind drift as they rolled through the West Philly neighborhoods.

The van made its way along Girard Avenue, the trolley track catching its wheels a few times shaking the van. Kelvin shook from his deep thoughts noticing they were heading out of West Philly. “Hey, where we going?”

“I want to watch a basketball game with my nephew. Is that too much to ask?” The van headed towards Lower Merion. Kelvin protested the whole ride there.

The wheelchair lift lowered; Kelvin felt as if he were descending into a mind shaft. “Stop.” The electric whine halted, Kelvin's whine continued. “I don’t want to do this. Let’s go home.”

Nate held the lift button. “You just won your way into the Philadelphia Chess Club on a move no one had seen in a hundred years. Inside that gymnasium where your name and your number hang from the rafter. Next to Kobe Bryant’s for Chrisesakes!”

“What’s your point?”

“My point is, you can do anything you want if you put your mind to it and do the work! You can be great. You can be great at chess, you can be great at…”

Kelvin answered sarcastically, “…at basketball?”

“Within reason, Kelvin. I was going to say, ‘At life’. Now c’mon.” The lift reengaged.

Kelvin disembarked, moving slow, he wheeled himself up the pavement toward the building where he left his dreams. Nate closed up the van and caught up to Kelvin at the gym door. “Let me get that for you.” Nate opened the door and Kelvin started forward, stopping instantly.

Inside on the parquet floor a game was in progress. There was no chirp of sneakers against the smooth floor. This was a different sound. The dull skidding of rubber, the banging of metal, the drum like dribble of a ball and a group of players calling for the ball. A small crowd cheered and clapped.

Kelvin White watched ten men in wheelchairs scrambling like a boardwalk bumper car attraction back and forth, up and down the court at surprising speed, starting and stopping, passing the b-ball back and forth and shooting for the basket. A sign read “Wheelchair Basketball, Saturday Nite.”

Kelvin watched a player around his age loop under the net and toss the ball one handed behind him for a score. Family and friends in the stands cheered. It wasn't the orchestrated elegance of his high school days; now, it looked more like navigating a heavy metal mosh pit. Yet, within its chaotic rhythm, Kelvin found a familiar beat. He looked up to the roof at his jersey banner hanging next to Kobe’s, then back to the game.

Nate stepped up next to Kelvin. “I hear they have a national league, as well.”

Kelvin looked at Nate, then back once more back to the game. He was speechless.

“What is it they say in chess?” Nate paused, pretending to think, then grinned. “Your move.”

Four in a lift. Doors stuck.

Relative strangers. Worked on the same floor. I just about recognised them.

"Just my luck" cursed one.

Asked what was wrong. He wanted to get home.

Two said honestly, she was glad to get a break.

Three pulled up a pack of cards, asked us for a game. We played uno and ate my left over m and m's until maintenance came. We exchanged numbers as we left.

"Rotten luck." said maintenance man, letting us out. ,

"Oh, it wasn't that bad," I said, with a smile. And went home to my empty flat.

It was pure luck that ovum # 102,364 was released via ovulation from my mother on that exact day in that exact year and was waved down the ciliated tube to meet a suitable suitor. It could've been any of the other hundred thousand eggs she was born with and, if so, I wouldn't be me.

It was pure luck that spermatozoon #43,438,822 was the exact vehicle to deliver the right exact half of my father's DNA. Had it been any other swimmer, then I just wouldn't be me.

And I really do like me, so I am very lucky.

With every inhale, every gush of breath that enters my lungs,

I hope.

I hope for a night of peaceful sleep

that never seems to come.

I hope for a week with no drama, no disappointment,

but life always has its tricks.

And I hope to find someone who understands me.

Even in the worst times,

when I can't catch my breath,

I'm still hoping.

Hoping that this life doesn't leave me longing for more.

And everytime I exhale,

I find myself hoping that the people I've hurt recover.

I find myself wishing I could go back in time,

maybe get my best friend back,

undo all the wrong I did.

I find myself hoping that life gives me a chance to apologize,

to take back what I said that day.

All I hope for is that everything goes back to normal.

And with everything in me,

at all times of the day and the night,

I hope that someday, I'll be happy again.

Dear Friend,

As I sit under the vast canopy of my night sky, my pen hesitates above this blank page. I often wonder about the world that cradles you, half a world away. The ink bleeds a little on the paper, mirroring the way thoughts of you have gently seeped into the corners of my being.

We have never met, yet your words have become the silent whisper in my every day. The streets I walk, the people I see – they all seem to hold a piece of the stories you've shared. I find myself pausing at the marketplace, smiling at a stranger, imagining if you would've noticed the same peculiar smile that I did.

Our worlds are different, as are our skies. My days are painted with the broad strokes of a sun that sets as yours awakes. And yet, in your letters, I find a familiarity that transcends these physical disparities. The emotions you weave through your words resonate with a part of my soul I never knew was seeking a companion.

You write about the rain that falls in your city, the way it paints everything a shade darker. I imagine you, watching the droplets race each other down your window, as I often watch the sun paint the evening sky in hues of orange and purple. In these moments, I am there with you, a silent observer in your world.

Though our lives are a patchwork of disparate threads, we have managed to unite around one common strand. You with your stories of packed streets and dark nights; me with my wide-open spaces and an unfathomably large sky. We have found comfort in the empathy of a stranger by sharing our joys, anxieties, and ordinary moments.

Sometimes, I lie awake at night, your latest letter clutched in my hand, and I stare at the stars. I try to map out the constellations you've described, but they are foreign to my sky. It's in these moments that the distance between us becomes tangible, the miles stretching out like an unbridgeable chasm.

Yet, even as this thought lingers, a comforting feeling washes over me. It is the thought of your words, your existence – a reminder that across this vast, incomprehensible space, there is another soul that resonates with mine.

Tonight, as I write back to you, I wonder if the stars that watch over me whisper secrets to the ones that guard your sleep. In this thought, there is a poetic justice, a connection that defies the logic of distance and time.

So, as I seal this letter, a vessel of my thoughts and a bridge over our distance, I find myself asking a question that seems to hold more than just curiosity. A question that perhaps, in its simplicity, captures the essence of our unlikely friendship:

Do We See the Same Stars?

With love,

Your Friend

She seldom called upon God other than to damn him, so it was unusual that a downward glance could prompt such an upward exaltation from her, a subconscious plea to a God she had heretofore failed to give His due justice. But in glancing down her eyes had chanced upon those of a nearby child amidst the bustling Christmas throngs, a child whose serious expression was simultaneously transfixed on her, innocently gazing upward at her as if she could somehow be meaningful and important to him or to anybody else, which she was not, unless of course that person was a client and was therefore paying her to be important to them. The thing about it though, was that when she looked into the child’s eyes she metaphysically sensed some sort of antennae raising within her, as though she were an ant, or a cockroach, or a mouse whose whiskers sensed without seeing, whose antennae felt without touching.

”Goodness Gracious,” was what audibly fell from her lips when she initially saw him, an old fashioned phrase which she’d never used before, though one she’d heard her mother and her mother’s mother utter a million times before, back when she herself was a child. Still, it was an odd expression to unpack now.

At thirty-nine years old Mason-Lee had come to the belief that her life was beyond novel-ness. She was in a rut. Having lived a man’s work life, what she was experiencing was in effect the traditional working man’s “mid-life crisis”, though she had no concerted realization of this. The longer than necessary hours she worked were partly born of habit, partly because work gave her feelings of both accomplishment and worth which she felt nowhere else, and partly (she admitted this only to herself) because outworking and out-performing the male partners at the firm fed her feminist vanity. At the office Mason-Lee was somebody. The office and courtroom were her arenas to outdo the men, and it was very nearly only men she contended with anymore, as the women she’d associated with early in her career had virtually all given it up for family life years ago, nearly every one except for Mason-Lee, that is. She had not wanted that. A courtroom was all she’d ever wanted really; a place where she could display who she was, an arena where her strengths, namely intrigue and tenaciousness, ruled. A place where she could compete against the smuggest of adversaries and win. A place where, if men did not pay her heed, it was at their peril.

That was all she’d ever wanted, to win. Until today that is... until this very moment.

This was a most unusual child she found herself gawking at, a child she was unable to remove her attention from, and for the most impossible of reasons. The child’s eyes recalled to Mason-Lee the thoughtful expression of her father’s countenance, while the boy’s face itself displayed the softness and beauty of her mother’s. The boy had her Aunt Judith’s dark, wavy hair, and her Grandfather’s bow-legged gait. Mason-Lee felt herself drawn to the child, but no, her newly raised antennae immediately corrected that misguided thought. What she was feeling was not a pull towards. It was much more than that. What she was feeling was a connection with... but why? And how?

”Mason-Lee” was her name, though it really wasn’t. Her birth certificate stated that she was Heather Lee Mason. She had gone by Heather until graduate school, where she’d taken to calling herself Mason-Lee, as it sounded stronger to her, more masculine. She’d reasoned at the time that if she was going to be competing with men in the debate of law, then it was important that the competition begin from a level base, so she reversed her name. The ease of the change had surprised her, that all it took was to tell people something was your name, and to write it the new way when possible, and suddenly it was. Not even her professors, who had only to read her name on their correctly typed rolls, ever challenged her on it. So now, fourteen years later, she was Heather Mason only to her family. To everyone else she was Mason-Lee Heather, Attorney at Law. But still, Mason-Lee was somehow completely oblivious to the irony that in the courtroom, unlike in her classrooms at college, she was referred to much more often as the very feminine “Ms. Heather” than her preferred “Mason-Lee.“

And Mason-Lee was still a “Miss,” though she was plenty attractive enough, and more than successful enough to be considered quite a catch. Even still, she had rarely been asked out on dates fifteen years ago, much less now. Looking back, which was something she frequently did these days, she had to assume that this was because she’d been as driven then as she was now. Driven people, she reasoned, have neither the time nor the inclination to “put themselves out there.” Mason-Lee had certainly never done that. She was nearing forty and had had sex with exactly two people in her life. Her current lover, seven years younger, was a nice looking if somewhat effeminate beta-male “friend” whom she felt empowered over, whom she could manipulate, and whom she was thus willing to let herself go with, as he could be easily discarded and knew it. But even with that, Mason-Lee did look forward to their usually wine-fueled, weekend trysts. While usually tender and compliant, there were those moments when “Drunk Steven” forgot himself in his inebriation and became a real man, contorting her for better access, holding her with a strength she had not believed he possessed and literally pounding her, his skin slapping her belly or her ass with such force that it reduced her into a willing submissiveness that she didn’t know she desired until she was lost in it’s throes. It was strangely in those moments, when she was at her most vulnerable, and when his body literally hummed with desire for her, that she felt the most empowered. That in those moments Steven, or any man, could want and need her so badly that it would take the threat of death before he could or would stop. Mason-Lee had been pleasantly amazed to discover the equalizing properties that sex with a man could offer, that she could be both submissive and in control; sex providing the physical sensations that he craved while supplying her with the rare moments of complete and undivided attention from a man that she so longed for.

Mason-Lee’s other sexual partner had been her college roommate, whom her younger, more naive self had allowed to seduce her. Mona was smart, somewhat pretty, and had never from day one hidden her interest, which was very attractive in itself. In honesty, no one had ever come after Mason-Lee with the intensity that Mona had, and Mason-Lee had happily bathed in the attention Mona showered her with. And she could not say that those sexual experiments with Mona had not had their highs, but sex with her had mostly felt coerced, almost forced, as if she was performing on a stage for an audience’s approval rather than giving of herself without reservation the way that Mason-Lee felt a ”real” relationship should be, though she’d had no experience at the time to base that on. And never, no matter how uninhibited Mason-Lee had eventually become with Mona, was she sure in her mind that this was what she wanted long-term. And in the end Mona had really only amounted to a “breaking away” experiment, so that all that became of their relationship was the begrudging realization that Mason-Lee was not a lesbian, that is to say that Mason-Lee had actually been more in love with the idea of lesbianism, of women empowering women, than she had been in love with Mona… and so, at Mona’s sad expense Mason-Lee had given it the old college try, masquerading herself as one.

The child was being led away now, his tiny hand in his mother’s, his face turned back over his shoulder, his fascinated and fascinating eyes still locked on hers. He felt it too, didn’t he? This same connection she felt? Unconsciously, Mason-Lee began to follow.

The hundreds of oblivious gift shoppers quickly became maddening. Every single time the masses got between she and the child, blocking him from Mason-Lee’s view, she experienced an uncomfortable, almost unreasonable panic twinging from her chest outward to her extremities, much as the pain from a diseased heart must do, leaving her desperate and afraid, so that she used her hands and voice to push bodies out of the way, heedless of their sexes, their ages, or their capacities. She found herself desperate to find the boy’s eyes again, and to ensure that they were searching back for hers, and each time she caught up to him his eyes were looking back, leaving her even more desperate for him! She felt an almost undeniable craving to rush forward, to take the boy in her arms, to kiss the child’s mouth, to smooth his hair, and to pull him close to her so that she might feel his pulse, and his breath, and his cheek against hers. “Was this how it felt to be a mother,” she wondered? It must be! But why this child? And why now?

It was then she remembered the eggs.

Back at thirty years old, when Mason-Lee’s career was just beginning to sky-rocket, she’d read an article, actually an advertisement about a woman’s reproductive timeline. The article had informed her that she was peaking. Her chances at producing a child, though she had not desired a child at the time and was doubtful that she ever would want one, would only diminish going forward. But according to the article her eggs could be removed and saved, frozen before their genetic qualities began their inevitable deterioration. Oocyte Cryopreservation it was called, and ever one to hedge her bets Mason-Lee had called the phone number supplied by the article that very day. Within a week she had plopped down the required $12,000, set up an automatic withdrawal on her credit card for the $1200 annual “storage” fee, and made appointments for the required hormone injections that were necessary prior to the actual harvesting. A few short-lived physical side effects later, some cramping pains mostly, the entire thing had been pushed to her back-of-mind. But now, as she and this child gazed at one another through the nameless, shapeless throngs, those hoarded eggs were pushing their way back into her front-of-mind, the eggs hardening in the now roiling waters of her heated anxieties, forcing the thought that she did not want to think to surface upward…

Could this child be hers?

It’s “mother” was walking faster now, forcing Mason-Lee into an uncomfortable, high-heeled jog to keep pace as she slipped, sliced and fought her way through the smiling idiots with their bulging plastic bags and their maxed-out credit cards. God damn them, would they not get out of her fucking way!

Could her eggs have been stolen? Sold to someone else? Just how many eggs had that clinic harvested from her? She didn’t know! The number hadn’t really seemed important at the time, yet how could she not have acquired that basic fact? And it only took one egg, didn’t it? One healthy egg to produce a child, yet how did one verify? Through DNA testing? She would have to do some research on the matter, Mason-Lee thought as she continued her bent-kneed shuffle after mother and child, her anxious hands clinging tightly to her own bulging, plastic shopping bags.

They were in the parking lot now, woman and child. In another moment the woman would be strapping the child, which Mason-Lee now considered to be “her child”, into a car seat and driving him away to God knew where. Her anxiety turning to panic Mason-Lee fought for control. What to do? A DNA test could only be forced if she had the boy, or if she at least knew where to find him. The woman held up a key-fob and pressed. From two rows over came an answering chirp which the woman bee-lined for.

Mason-Lee, generally the most thoughtful, analytical, and nonplussed of people, found herself in a blind panic which left her startled and defenseless when the woman wheeled on her with an expression twisted in fear and concern. “I don’t know what your problem is lady, but you’d better leave us alone!”

”What? What do you mean?” Mason-Lee’s own timid reply surprised her.

”I mean,” the woman’s angry voice twisted the words like licorice. “That you have been following me since Macy’s! Go away! Leave us alone!” The woman huffed away, towing the boy in-hand. Temporarily taken aback, Mason-Lee let them go, but the moment didn’t last. It couldn’t last, could it? Not with what was at stake! With the woman’s back turned Mason-Lee dropped her bags and rushed forward, grabbing the boy’s free hand and tugging, but the smaller woman did not yield. Caught up in their tug-of-war the boy’s shrieks attracted on-lookers with cell phone cameras at the ready. Letting loose of her child the woman jumped at Mason-Lee, swinging and clawing at her with an unexpected ferociousness as Mason-Lee hauled the child up into her arms and began to run with it. But with all of her education and training she should have known how it had to end.

Try as she might, she could not run fast enough, nor far enough.

It was not one of those nice, hide-away, rich people jails Mason-Lee was taken to, but was the regular city holding cell where she stood in a corner, unwilling to sit on any one of the filthy cots amongst the tattooed and drug addicted whores and thieves whose disapproving eyes stared at her gentrification from beneath tired, heavy lids. The only good in the wait was that there was plenty of time to contemplate what she had done, and what she might do yet. Well past her anger at the slowness of a system which she was observing for the first time from its other side, Mason-Lee, a perennial chess player, pondered her next moves.

Holding the child had been all she’d hoped it would be, even if she had been running for their lives at the time. With him in her arms Mason-Lee had felt alive for the first time in seemingly ever. With him in her arms she had finally felt a purpose beyond herself. To the layman it might have seemed that Mason-Lee had acted rashly, but no. Mason-Lee was a lawyer. A good one. One who understood the system she worked, and those who made it up. As a first-time offender she would be released on bail from this dingy hell-hole, and as a lawyer she would have access to the names and address of her accuser or victim, however you wanted to look at her. With that information, Mason-Lee would file her own case, the system’s first “maternity case,” where she would herself accuse the other woman of stealing her eggs, and thus kidnapping Mason-Lee’s unborn child, rather than the other way around. She could undoubtedly find something in the woman’s past to besmudge her with before the jury. There was always something, wasn’t there? If she could have the ”other mother” incarcerated, she might be able to keep the other mother in systematic limbo for years while she wrangled the boy through the foster system and back out in her favor. After all, money really could talk, and Mason-Lee had enough to make it sing.

Mason-Lee might have blown her chance when younger, but she would not blow this one now. No, she would use every tool of this conniving, ruthless trade she had mastered and she would win. She would have that child… hers, or not.

There's a story in that scar he's wearing. It's probably just the cat, or maybe a carpentry project, but my mind goes beyond the mundane.

Well. It's not yet a scar, but it likely will be. The scab looks pretty gnarly and the skin is all red and angry around it. It doesn't look septic, but I think the memories tied to the ring just below it may well be.

The cut is on his left ring finger, and the gold band has been his for over twenty years.

It's unlikely that there will be twenty more.

The woman he married had a sister who never made it past 50 and a mother who didn't see 61. At 65, his wife is the longest lived on her particular branch of the family tree.

He both cares for her and provides care for her, as her health has slowly paled as surely as her complexion. Grays and wrinkles find us all, but they've set upon her heavily in the last two years. Where she was strength and fire she's now shadowy embers, slowly burning enough to know there's warmth hidden away somewhere. Her fires are stoked with the heat of disagreement and she burns with the need to be contrary. Her ways are the best ways if not the only ways, and this is made harder for her to reconcile since she no longer can perform many of the ways on her own.

We were friends once, and I miss those days.

It makes me happy to see her face light with joy, but there's still the heat of argument just behind her excitement as she opens her Christmas present and I explain its meaning. It's almost as if she wants to debate the nuance of my gift and how she should use it; to me, it is clear, but explanations that suit her are difficult these days.

She'll be given that trip to Ireland that she's always wanted, and he'll be along with her. She asks if I'll go, and I beg off because of work.

God help me, I know I should want to go, but I just don't. Time is short, but so is patience. I've always felt the need to spend my time wisely, because my branch of her family tree isn't exactly long and winding, either. I should spend more time with my mother, but it's an emotionally expensive investment for us all. I want her to find happiness in those Emerald Isles, or the closest thing to it she can, and me being there probably won't bring much of that to anyone.

Except maybe him, because he needs a break. I can tell. He and I share glances across the Christmas table, and he is weary.

There isn't a scar on his finger yet, but I can tell the ring is slowly cutting him pretty deep.

Nick is standing at the side entrance of his apartment building. There’s a cool wind coming off the Saint John River, that’s chilling his bones. He shivers, and he knows that his faux-leather jacket, bought for a mere 30 bucks at WalMart, does nothing to insulate his body, but he doesn’t care. Nick is going for a look, and big-headedness aside, the reflection in the glass door, seems to say that he’s pulling it off.

He has a guitar in a case that he's holding, and though he tries not to make a habit of it, he’s smoking a cigarette. Nick is smiling though. He’s happy as a clam. He’s 21 years old and he’s waiting for a cabby to pick him up and take him uptown for his first solo gig. Just him, a stool, a guitar and a mic, in front of a couple hundred people at Jesse’s bar and grill. And sure, he understands that they aren’t there for him, they’re just going to be enjoying Friday night wings, there’s still going to be an audience, and he’s going to play his heart out.

He’s 33 years old sitting at his home office, staring at a picture his son made him for Father’s Day. It’s a rocket ship flying through space. There are stars and a moon made of glitter. There’s tin foil and green, blue and orange markers on the rocket ship. At the nose of the ship is a cut-out picture of his son, smiling. On the bottom of the black construction paper, is written. “I love you to the moon and back.”

Tears are streaming down Nick’s face as he stares at the picture. He’s remembering the day his son brought it home from school. Jumping and giddy with excitement. On his desk, there’s another Father’s Day gift from his son from the year before. This one says My Dad Rocks in black paint, and there’s a large round rock for Nick, and a small thin rock for Luke. Beside that is a framed picture of him, his son and his daughter sitting on bleachers at Coronation Park on a beautiful Saturday in July where a nice cool breeze blew through the ball field. Nick’s wife Cassandra snapped the picture, right after they raced across the park and their faces were beet red.

Cassandra is upstairs packing a suitcase. She’s leaving, and driving to the East side to her parents place. The kids are leaving too, but they don’t know it yet. They’re both playing with their Christmas presents on the floor of Nick’s home office, which has been deemed “The Dancing Room” because his record player is set up next to his desk, and he spends more time dancing with the kids than he does working on his manuscript.

She told Nick to say goodbye to Luke and Emily. “I’ll bring them back in a week,” she said coldly. Zero trace of the woman who read in her vows that she’d love him enough for a hundred life times. She was gone. Nick feels like in many ways, he killed her.

Emily is wearing a pink tracksuit that Nick’s mother bought her for Christmas. Her Tony Soprano outfit, she called it. She’s dragged her Sesame Street bin of Barbie’s into the dancing room, and she’s on the floor repeatedly changing their outfits, and making unintelligible but beautifully precious conversation between them.

Luke is sitting on the love seat with a small table in front of him. There are Pokemon coloring pages, and several packs of crayons dumped into a tupperware container. He’s coloring and humming to himself. He’s always humming, and whispering under his breath. It’s strange, but it never fails to put a smile on Nick’s face.

He turns and looks at them. And just says, “I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.” They don’t answer. They’re both in their own world. The beautiful land of make believe, where Nick spent many years as a kid, only to find himself thrust into a world of reality so painful, he couldn’t bear it.

In the corner of the office, are his bookshelves, and two acoustic guitars. An old Fender that belonged to his father, and a red Takamine that he bought on Marketplace several years before. They’re both collecting dust.

He grabs the Fender, and sits on the floor next to his kids. He closes his eyes, and tries to channel the land of make believe.

He’s 21 years old again, fumbling with a patch cord that’s in a large plastic bin at the back of the pub. He’s trying to untangle it, and he can feel his face flushing. He isn’t sure if the people in the bar notice, but he’s sure they do, and it’s filling his face with heat.

Nick manages to unplug it, and then makes it way to the soundboard. He was told that someone would come and set it up for him, but there isn’t anyone around, and he’s figuring that no one is coming.

But despite the rough start to the evening, he figures it out and sits on a small stool, takes a deep breath, and says, “mic check. Mic check.” No one laughs, and he even receives a couple of thumbs up from some guys in the back corner booth. Something small like that, takes the heat away from his face, and lowers his heart rate.

The set is two hours long, and for a mediocre guitar player without a band to extend songs through jamming, he has about 35 songs prepared. He played them and recorded them at his apartment and they went fifteen minutes over the 2 hour mark, but he figures here, in front of these people, his nerves will speed up the songs.

He’s written 15 originals, some ready to be performed, others not so much. The rest will be covers of Neil Young, Springsteen, Lennon, McCartney, The Stones, Paul Simon, Billy Joel, and a few Jack White songs.

A pretty red headed waitress brings him two bottles of Alexander Keith’s beer and tells him to break a leg and winks.

His first song is an original called For You, a rocker that he always envisioned playing live with a fully plugged in band, and rocking out at a great venue like Madison Square Garden. It seems to go over well. He fumbles a few chord changes, and messes up a couple of verses, but this was one of the songs that wasn’t fully completed, but a favorite of his nonetheless, that he felt he needed to play.

There’s a woman sitting near the front with a couple of big loud mouths that are laughing obnoxiously amongst themselves, as though they’re the only two people in the bar. But she isn’t part of the conversation. From Nick’s vantage point, she looks like a third wheel, though he assumes that she’s one of their girlfriends.

She has black hair, and pale skin, with scarlet lipstick. She’s wearing a leather jacket and skin tight jeans. Her hair is straight and down to her shoulders, and she’s wearing glasses with large black rims.

Her hand is resting softly on her chin, and she’s listening, fully listening. Nick scans the rest of the bar as he covers Springsteen’s Atlantic City, and doesn’t notice another person in the entire pub that’s paying attention, but she is. And man, is she ever beautiful.

Her name is Cassandra.

Nick is 25 years old, and he’s sitting on a flight next to an old woman who’s reading an Agatha Christie whodunnit. His hands are clammy, and he’s rubbing them repeatedly on his jeans. He has a Larry McMurtry novel in the mesh of the backseat in front of him, but he’s too nervous to grab it.

He hates flying, but he’s happy to be going home. He’s been gone for over two months training for a job on the railroad. While he’s been gone, his pregnant girlfriend gave birth to a beautiful baby boy and just before that moved to Northern New Brunswick to a house he’s never been in, and to a city he’s never lived in.

He’s thinking about landing, and how he’s going to kiss the pavement on the tarmac when he does. He’s thinking about the cab ride that’ll take him to his new home, and to his new family, and the thoughts are hard to comprehend.

The plane lands in the tiny airport, and though he doesn’t kiss the ground, the walk from the plane to the airport is one of great calm and accomplishment. The cab ride is quiet. And when the old man pulls him into his new driveway, he sees Cassandra, waiting outside, holding a newborn baby boy. Nick feels tears stinging his eyes.

He thanks the cabbie, exits the car and grabs his suitcase out of the trunk. The walk across the small driveway is one that’ll forever be etched in his mind. He hugs his wife and his son, and feels like he could stay in that position forever.

He’s 33 years old and he’s playing music for his kids, as Cassandra walks down the steps and tells them to get their stuff ready.

He’s 34 years old, and he and Cassandra are sitting in Nick’s car overlooking the river and drinking coffee. He’s telling her how he’s been attending anger management classes, and how he’s been seeing a therapist. He also tells her that he’s back at the gym and working out five nights a week at the fitness center on McDonald.

They get out of the car, and walk over the grass hill to the walking path below. She takes his hand in hers, and they walk.

He tells her he’s dealing with his financial problems, his issues of abandonment, of loneliness and inadequacies as a husband and a wife. He tells her he’s sorry for taking those issues out on her, and that it wasn’t fair.

She tells him that some of the things she said weren’t fair either.

He’s 35 years old, and he’s sitting on the floor of the dancing room, playing music, and in front of him, Cassandra, Luke and Emily watch attentively.