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Home Alone

Andrew Schenck

    Back to my sleepy split-level ranch at about 5:30. It was still sunny, but the evening tempered the afternoon heat just enough. I checked the mail, listened to phone messages, and fished around for the remote control, which was always expertly hidden beneath furniture cushions, or under my nightstand.
    Turning to my nighttime companion, an LG Flat-screen, I begged for some vicarious pleasure. It was at this point that my rebellious alter-ego made a desperate bid to change the routine, drawing me to an antique rocking chair holding vigil just next to the picture window. As I sat, a chill moved down my spine, making my extremities completely numb.
    I looked out at the gardens which lined the front walk, and watched the bees flutter along the beautiful purple irises, lovingly planted 5 years ago by a truly beautiful woman. I could still see Jinny kneeling with trowel in hand, delicately planting, watering, and weeding until the beautiful floral images in her mind’s eye had reached fruition.
    Some might say that the old khaki shorts, black T-shirt, and large straw hat looked peasant-like, but I felt that they were a reflection of her true loveliness, the simplicity of spirit which allows for the appreciation of what most call mundane. Her long flowing black hair glistened in the sunlight, and gave away the secret of her Korean heritage, which the large straw hat desperately tried to conceal. Her beautiful dark brown eyes and thin frame made her look like she belonged on a runway, despite the clothing that completed her disguise as a local planter.
    She was truly amazing, and as I stared almost hypnotically out of my window, tears began to stream from my eyes. It was the realization that I had reached 100 times before, and had conveniently “forgotten” through deliberate denial. She was gone.
    My little angels were also gone, stolen from me. I had two children, Matthew, aged 12, and Katelyn, aged 9. They were my pride and joy. Their personalities, which appeared to be divinely crafted into polar opposites, complemented each other perfectly.
    Katelyn was an incessant busybody, and fluttered around as the bees do from place to place, project to project. One minute, she was crafting a beautiful beaded bracelet. The next, she was helping her mother tend to the garden.
    Matthew stayed sequestered in the basement, which had all the tools he needed to pursue his hobby, an Xbox and a stack of games a mile high. One minute he would assassinate a hundred people to save the world, and the next he would sail the high seas, capturing whales through skillful projection of a shiny metal harpoon. All this “activity” could become overwhelming at times, leading him to rest periodically with the occasional cartoon.
    As beautiful as these images may be, they are also extremely painful. I can’t caress my daughter’s long brown hair, or play basketball with my son, whose lanky figure was just on the cusp of being called masculine. The store was only seven miles away. How could I know I would never see them again? They were robbed from me, forced toward an ethereal destination that I am desperately trying to find.

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