Dear Halloway

Dear Halloway,

Back in my day, during the old scares of cholera and Ebola, we didn't have any of these terrible differences that we have now. We loved each other as people-neighbors. Nowadays, life is oriented from a point of view that is relevant to the selfish mind. That does sadden me.

You, son, are an example of the opposite in the world. You give thanks to those that give you treats and you give treats to those who give thanks. You are the greatest man I know, and, though my old age messes with my memory sometimes, I know that you are worth everything that I could give. If I could see you smile at me one more time before I pass I would die happy and fulfilled. I want you to know that.

Don't get teary-eyed on me yet, 'cause I'm not quite done. In fact, I'm anywhere close to finished.

This note that I am writing you is a thank you letter - an "I wanted you to know" type of letter that I hope reaches you well. (I also hope that you can read my cursed handwriting).

Ever since my wife, Helen, died a few years ago, I have been doing unwell. I have been depressed lately and have started writing more and more about this depression. You, however, have reconciled my soul from this lost dark chasm of shame and sorrow; you have brought me to fame - my Opus.

Ever since you started talking with me ever other day, I have been thinking more and more and my writing has gotten less sad. I started writing short-stories. Funny short little tidbits of happiness that I hope I can pass on to others when I go. And most of the characters, the good ones, are you. You are the person that I base the good guy off of in the fantasy story with the knight and the damsel in distress.

I am an old man, so you might not list my opinion in your credence, but I think that you are the personified hero. You are the man with the sword and shield fighting the raucous rotundity of the dragon of death and depression. You are the man who saved the old gaffer from the reap of souls, the child who sat next to the lonely unspoken kid at lunch, the elder who sought pity on a wretched and cursed soul. It is through these that I have written a short series of poems for you. I won't put them all here for I think they are far too long and far too boring. I will however list one of my favorites. It is about you of course. Your dashing appearance. Your urban knighthood.

And sat he there upon his steed, his

Mane glistening, roaring with finesse

And strength. Hark! Listen to his call, his

Sword unsheathing from it's victim, the

Weary foe, destined to fall by the

Hands of a good man. You would find not

Any more a fine gentleman than

The score of stolid solitary

Sanctuary from sound salty scions

From the scope of scented scourges. A

Man, weathered: time, heartbreak; strength o'erall.

His steed, red in main and pale in corpse

Finds good footing on the breadth of land

That doth shutter in deference to

Good will. A noble steed portrayed thus

And held brighter than most. An ass, nay,

Yet, nobler so, birthed from the pits of

Ovum spectacular and borne in

Mind of great range, wisdom, and naked.

He does ride straight.

His sword, fanged and scoped in fiery

Pits forged, glowing a simmer of hot

Red iron, broken and fixed by the

Heavy hammer of godly smith.

He is true to strike.

And the hero.

He doth ride now.

I hope you enjoyed that. It took a little while to write, but I think that it is good. Maybe I will write some more for you in the future. What little time I have left of the future.

The truth is, Halloway, I don't think I am going to be around much longer indeed. Maybe after I finish writing this note to you - or maybe before if you want to be extra paranoid. The point is I am supposed to choose somebody to bestow my estate upon. My son, Markus, is dead. He has been dead for a while. I don't think I ever told you about him though. He died in a car crash while on his way to a really big stock-holders meeting for some big insurance agency. He was forty-four. I was seventy-nine. It was two-thirty pm. when I got the call that he had been in an accident. It was three-thirty-seven that I was told he died due to severe head trauma. He had a wife and two children.

Markus was my only son. My wife died long before Markus had died. Markus' wife, also named Helen, was put on pension for her share of her husband's stocks and she's made it well off. She's more rich than I am, which is kind of surprising considering the number I'm looking at on my phone right now. My assets are not very extensive. All I own is my house, my small little Datsun Z and what little furniture I have stocked into my house. I'm assuming you don't want any of my clothes, but your more than welcome to help yourself to my book collection. And if you haven't figured it out yet, I am giving you all of my belongings. Halloway, you are my son, whether we are related or not. You have won my heart just like a newborn baby wins that heart of a newborn father. I know your connections to your family are not the best, so I'll not talk too much about that, but I want you to know that I love you, Halloway.

Now don't think that I am replacing my son with you. My son is dead and will always be dead until I go and see him in heaven. If you feel guilty about you getting an inheritance that is not yours. Stop. This inheritance is just as much yours as it is Markus'. The only problem is that I can't bequeath my estate to a dead man.

I think it's to you that I owe my longevity. I am ninety-five years old and still able to think clearly and write with some eloquence (though I'll let you decide whether or not that's true), and I don't think I would be here without the zeal I found through you.

Before I pass on from this earthly biome of life, I think I should tell you a story of when I was young. It was the first time that I ever remember feeling happy.

It took me a while to think of this memory so don't discount it and think it's something I just made up on the spot.

When I was thirteen, I first fell in love with a girl. Her name was Isabella, not Helen - her and I don't go that far back. Isabella was the most beautiful girl in the entire class - nay, the entire school! - and I was excited to talk to her. I was always the nervous kid in the classroom that only raised his hand to answer the question once a week. That was better than some people nowadays so don't think me cowardly.

I was always staring at her, thinking that if I take my eyes off of her I would miss the one moment that she caught me glimpsing, miss the one moment that we would make eye-contact. I was deep in love with this girl. You feel that sometimes. Not often when your little, but quite often when your young. I felt that for my first girlfriend Violet. I felt that for my first and last wife Helen.

I was in such a trance of love that I felt that any absence of that character in my life would bring me down too. If she died, I would die. I found that that is not the case. One day, on a sunny beautiful day in September, the Texan breeze drifting easily on the eyebrows of wind that passed through the air; one day, Isabella Warren died.

I remember vividly every occurrence that day. I remember how odd it felt for a beautiful day to hold such a tragic event, like a wonderfully ornate chalice, etched with diamonds and emeralds, holding a slog of bile and vomit. And in case you didn't think so, there was nightshade mixed in too.

So often in books and movies we associate sadness and tragedy with rain and storm. I find the opposite. That's why, I think you might have picked up on, I moved from El Paso, Texas, to Seattle, Washington. Rain for me is something peaceful. I have always been partial to spending my days inside, writing and reading and doing my homework, the hot sun beating its way through the contested window pane of my bedroom window.

Ever since that day the love of my childhood died (it was choking by the way; she died of choking) I have always hated the heat, and especially the dry heat. The rain brought coolness to the earth, it brought moisture, which brought mud, which brought minerals, which acted as a catalyst for life. And in some way or another, rain acted as a catalyst for my life too. I would be gloomy and then it would start raining and I would feel the gloom no more.

The whole point of my little story is this:

In my life, I have found love, not just romantic love but defined love, in people and places I would never have expected. You, Halloway, are an example. I never thought I would fall in love with somebody like you. We are so different from each other, but you have become my son, and, I hope, me your father.

To lose you would bring pain to not just the dry Texas air that followed summer at it's heels, but to my entire life. I can't risk that anymore. I need you feel some pain for me. That may sound selfish, but I don't care.

This letter is to be sent out the day that I die and hopefully you are just as healthy as you are now. If I live to be one-hundred, which will be surprising, it will be sent out then. I will not change my mind. I know that for a fact.

Halloway. What a wonderful name. Halloway Letts. Your parents did good in naming you. Kind of rolls off the tongue.

Well. Goodbye, Halloway Letts.

From a Father,

Thomas Burkeep