Leg Nine

Arrived in Gatlinburg, Tennessee, November 11th, 4 P.M.
Jeep Odometer: 192,918
Trip: 1,909

Smoky Mountain Sun keep on shining! Sweet Home Rocky Top…Rocky Top, Tennessee! 33!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Oh how the sight of those mountains felt as I came into east Tennessee on I-75. Also, how the house of horrors have changed because of 33 Miracles and ten months of separation.

If you’ve never been to east Tennessee while the autumn foliage is at its peak, you haven’t witnessed true beauty. Also, if you’ve lost hope in the kindness of others, swing down to east Tennessee any time of the year. It is still my favorite place I have ever lived, and it never loses its appeal, no matter how long I’m away from it.

I had a bucket list, you can call it, and with the exception of climbing Mount LeConte, I reached all of my goals. The following are a few things to take into account when camping in the Smoky Mountain National Park:

1). If you tent, bring an air mattress or sleeping pad. The tent “pads” are gravel, and you are not permitted to pitch a tent on the grass—a rule I broke the final two nights.
2). If alone, get drunk. It’s really the only form of entertainment after two hours of solitude by a campfire.
3). Don’t count on the campers one site over, with a roaring fire and music, to invite you over. Just accept being alone with nature, drink a few more Yuenglings, and call it a night.
4). Most important of all, layer-up before going to bed. You will be sweating when you fall asleep, but you won’t be freezing at 4 A.M. when you wake up to go to the bathroom.
5). Try to remember that you left a white garbage bag right outside of your tent. Therefore you won’t freak out at 4 A.M. when you unzip the tent to go to the bathroom, zip it back up, lie down until the pain in your bladder is too much to handle, and finally break out of the tent like it’s San Quentin and you’re on Death Row for a crime you didn’t commit. The whole process is unnerving, and terribly embarrassing to tell anyone about.

The following is a journal entry I made on the second day of my trip:

“Last night was a perfect example of why I drink when I camp by myself. Once again, I couldn’t get a fire going. I’m 0 for 2 on the Odyssey. I’m not sure if I keep getting wet firewood, or if I just suck at building fires. Oh well. Tonight will be another opportunity. I went out today to work on “33”. In the process of taking pictures for the front and back covers, as well as the chapter pages, I was faced with many demons of the past year. I had not been up to Bluff Mountain in 13 months. It was interesting. I felt emotions of joy, want, disappointment, heartache, triumph, and then nothing at all. It’s funny because I lived there for 8 months, but when I pulled up to it, it felt like it was Daniel’s cabin all along. I have to admit, however, that I took pleasure in seeing it vacant. Selfishly I don’t want to think of anyone else living there but me.”

As for my bucket list, I climbed to the top of Chimney Tops, Bluff Mountain, visited my old cabin on Bluff, consumed many mugs of Thunder Road and Harvestfest at the Brewery, and took over 100 photos for the illustrations in “33”. Although I planned on staying until Monday, I decided to ship out on Sunday instead. While sitting at Grandma’s Kitchen eating my breakfast, I looked around the room at all of the religious signs on the walls. My personal favorite: Expect Miracles. I’m expecting 33 of them to hit the bookstore shelves by summer time.

Leg Eight

Arrived in Dayton, Ohio, November, 8th, 5 P.M.
Jeep Odometer: 192,454
Trip: 444.00

One of my favorite things about visiting the Lukes is how Diane and I are so far apart in age (17 years), yet simply brother and sister when we’re together. Of course I hold an admiration and respect for her, and I’m sure I’ll always be a little boy in her eyes, but amidst the jokes and laughter we might as well be the same age.

The moment I rolled into the neighborhood I saw Nastia, Mariana, Jacinta, and Charlie waiting for me on the street corner. And I thought my celebrity didn’t extend beyond Huron! It’s funny to me how the traditions of my youth have progressed to the next generation. I can remember when I stood on the street corner, or end of the driveway, waiting to run alongside Diane’s car. Another frightening sign of age: Elena is going to college next year! I thought about giving her some advice regarding college, but I hardly doubt it would’ve gone over very well with Jim and Diane. I’ll just save all of it for the memoir.

On my first night in town, Charlie kicked my ass at Stratego, although I will say he definitely plays by his own set of rules. Reminds me of someone I know. The second day, I took Nastia, Mariana, Jacinta, and Charlie to the park. We played tag and made several laps around the small lake on bikes, roller blades, and my feet. Later on that night I laced up the old sneakers and attended basketball practice with Elena and Valya. I figured I’d take it easy on those high school girls, but they didn’t share the same compassion. At least three times I thought I had an easy break-away lay up, but by the time I reached the three-point line I was swarmed by at least two defenders. I almost always passed it to Valya, who is a natural jump shooter. With a few tweaks to her form and 500 miles of dedication, she’ll have a college scholarship within three years. My only moment of true glory came when I dusted Elena and the rest of the squad on the first suicide. That’s a fact she will dispute, but it’s a fact nonetheless.

On my third and final day, I hung out with Nastia and Jacinta. We played catch, and I determined that Jacinta will be on the 2026 gold medal winning U.S. softball team. I’ve never seen a girl, who tips the scale at 45 pounds, launch a hardball 30 yards with the flick of her wrist. The night wound down with dinner, warm apple pie, and a lengthy conversation between Jim and I. Then I printed off a copy of “33” for Diane. I know, I know, she’s the only one I printed a hard copy for, but she’s the oldest, so she deserves it.

The final morning we woke up early, went to Mass, and then Co-Op. One side note: please shut down the “arts and crafts” room. 105 degrees, no air circulation, and various adhesive substances cannot be safe for my nephews. Nevertheless, their log cabin looked fantastic. Around 10 A.M. I decided it was time to move on. So I said goodbye to the kids, Karen, and Diane, and I moved the Jeep southward to yet another home from my past.

Leg Seven

Arrived in Huron, Ohio, October 30th, 4 P.M.
Jeep Odometer: 192,237
Trip: 1,229

Going back to Huron always brings back memories. Of course there’s the running joke, “How long are you staying? Ten months?” Gregg breaks that out without fail every time visit. I can’t blame him, though, because I’d probably do the same thing.

But going back to Huron is as close to going home as I’ll ever feel when visiting a sibling. I did live there for ten months, two years ago, and I still feel very blessed to have done it. There’s no substitute for living in such close proximity to your nieces and nephews, especially in such formative years of their lives. Mya is the most hilarious four-year-old in the world, Ava is the modern-day princess, with a heart of pure God, and Lucas possesses a striking resemblance of the boy I once was—small for his age but well beyond his years both playing and watching sports.

I got to carve pumpkins with the Winnestaffers, which consisted of them choosing a design, and me actually carving them, but it was a pure blast, despite the inevitable arthritis I developed within the three-hour process. I also got to dress up as a pirate, and I took them trick-or-treating. Along the way we were joined by half a dozen neighbor kids, all of which called me Uncle Piper, and half of which I’d never met before. I always dreamed of being famous, I just aspired for a little more than ‘legend’ status among the four to ten-year-old range in the Eagle Crest Development. I’ll still take it as something, though.

Later on that week, Karen brought Marissa, Jonah, Ethan and Zachary up from the ‘Boro, and the party finally got into full-swing. We had an epic 56 to 56 tie on the backyard grid-iron, and I will forever plead the “Fifth” regarding whether or not I “fixed it”. All I will say, being a man who prides himself on individual statistics, is that my interception in the fourth quarter destroyed my nearly flawless quarterback rating.

On Saturday, Dad and Gerry came up from Youngstown, and Jon and Maeve came over from South Euclid. As only a Vasko could put it: who says nine is enough when there can be thirteen? The kids were animals until bed time, as was expected, and the adults stayed up late eating potato chips and drinking cold beers, as was expected.

Everyone should get to experience a week like that, at least once a year, even if it involves the self-induced pain of damaging a quarterback rating to keep any kids from crying :) In other words, everyone should have a family like mine!

Leg Six

Arrived in Cleveland, Ohio, October 28th, 4 P.M.
Jeep Odometer: 192,143
Trip: 1,134

Back to Bryce’s old stomping grounds. I remember when this town was my getaway. I remember creating an alternative world here to escape the pains of adolescence. The beauty of my line of work, however, is that the fictional story I once created in these neighborhoods never was but forever will be untouched, in my mind at least.

The reality of the situation is that I wasn’t here to reminisce on those stories of the past. I was here to see my brother and his family. And from the moment I arrived, I realized how unique of an opportunity my “odyssey” was: seeing my family members and loved ones in their natural environment, amidst the day-to-day routines of their lives. Not the usual frazzled mess that is forty different people at a family reunion every two or three years.

After arriving I spent about two hours with Bridget and Maeve, catching up on the South Euclid news and the present day happenings of a six-year-old in Montessori school. Then Jon came home, and it was a mad rush to get to the soccer field. I’m pretty sure, at least I hope, that that was the coldest soccer game I have and will ever attend. I’m also not sure why I even made it out of the house with flip flops, but I soon found myself agreeing with one of Boompa’s backwards theories: you lose more body heat from your feet than anywhere else. I won’t lie, either, and say the game was fun. It wasn’t. In my opinion, it was dangerous for everyone involved. But that’s the way northeast Ohioans like to do it—on the edge of hypothermia.

Later that first night I drove over to the west side and met up with old friends from last year’s five-month stint in Rocky River. We shared laughs and drinks, caught up on gossip and each other’s lives, and solidified my father’s assessment from a few days earlier: “You definitely can’t say that you don’t have friends everywhere.”

I spent most of Friday morning hanging out with Jon, and late in the afternoon we went down to Little Italy for Mary Maeve’s Halloween party. She was the most beautiful Egyptian princess I have ever seen. Sadly, (no pun intended) I couldn’t get a picture with her that didn’t involve tears—she didn’t win the costume contest or musical chairs :( But the tears subsided later when we went out for pizza, and she showcased her emerging talents as a mathematician. She was very good with her riddles, too. She stumped me on all three of them. On the way home we grabbed a movie and some beers, cozied up in the living room, and wound down the night as a family.

On Saturday we had another soccer game, and I was much more prepared. Following the game, Jon took me to my old bank, and I closed the account. That may not mean much to anyone else, but to those close to me, they can understand how a simple act of closing a bank account meant closing a much larger door to my past. The next door down the long and twisting hallway of life was westward. So I said my goodbyes and headed towards Huron.

Leg Five

Arrived in Youngstown, Ohio, 4 P.M.
Jeep Odometer: 192, 044
Trip: 1,036

Home. At least, another home that once was and no longer is. The house still looks the same, the old ball fields and basketball courts across the street still resonate with the same youthfulness of days gone by, and my father still waits for me with a smile and a handful of jokes I’ve heard at least ten times before. I’ve often said that the most peaceful place in the world to me is my parents’ home, the home of my youth, and the place where my wings were created and once set free. It still rings true to an extent.

The only thing better than lying on the couch in the family room watching football and awaiting the words, “Dinner’s ready,” from my stepmother’s voice at the top of the kitchen steps, is sitting at the kitchen table with my parents eating the home-cooked meal. We shared food and conversation, laughter, and our growing philosophies of life as all three of us progress down the road of wisdom. It’s also very peculiar to sit with my parents as an adult, free to make my own choices, and free to take their advice or let it go.

It’s also funny to see the faces of old friends, friends I still think of as sixteen, seventeen, and eighteen, even though they grew the same as I have, some of which have taken the steps in life such as getting married and having children. There’s always a mixed response amongst those I once saw on a day to day basis. The first response is an aw-factor of “you’re going where…I could never do that”, and the second is simply “you’re back home now…let’s drink these beers and enjoy each other’s company.”

The late night run-ins with my father are still the highlight of those trips down “homeward bound” lane. Papa V often wakes up restless in the middle of the night, fixes himself a sandwich, and goes down to his “man cave” to work on his book or paint Santa Claus figurines he plans to give to each son and daughter as Christmas gifts. I make my way down there, sit across from him, and listen as he talks about his book, his views on history, politics, and sports, and his vault of memorized corny jokes. It’s time that I treasure and bury away in my heart, because I know there will be a day when he’s no longer with us except in spirit, and it will be my duty to carry on his legacy for my children and grandchildren.

There’s the old saying, “Home is where the heart is,” and for those four days in October, my heart did not yearn to be anywhere but with my parents, in their home, amongst their love, protection, and guidance.

Leg Four

Arrived in Columbus, Ohio, 7 P.M.
Jeep Odometer: 191, 870
Trip: 862

Homecoming 2010. I haven’t been on the old stomping grounds of the Ohio State campus for a little over a year. Things have changed, like always, and not just the ever-revolving faces of students, but some of the buildings, like the Ohio Union, and the ever-present reality that I’m becoming the “old man on campus” more and more with each return trip. Nevertheless I tried running with the young bulls one more time.

First, I met some random Indian kid from Craigslist who sold me a pair of tickets for the game at $120. This is a decision I would lament the following day, but I’ll get to that. After leaving Long’s Bookstore, I went to north campus to meet up with my old co-worker from the Cape, who is a senior in the Music school. Some things never change, like four 21-year-old guys sitting around a bedroom in an old, should be condemned, campus house, playing video games and smoking pot. I can’t say that scene didn’t ring a bell, even if I further displayed my “old man” status by not partaking. I also further cemented my “old man” status in my own brain by getting bored with such an environment within twenty minutes. But could I do, these kids were letting me crash on their futon for the night.

The rest of Friday night was rather uneventful. I went with the boys to a pool hall, drank a couple of beers and missed two dozen easy shots, walked to Little Bar—the old home base—met up with an old college friend, was ditched by him twenty minutes later, and randomly ran into another old college friend. We rehashed old memories, as we always do, and ultimately decided to call it a night by 1 A.M. That’s sad in itself—going to bed at 1 A.M. the night before a game because you’re old and tired.

Saturday followed much of the same uneventful blah-blah-blah. It was great to meet up with my brothers-in-law Brian and Gregg, to tailgate, crack jokes, and disregard the fact that we were, in fact, three old men. But the game was a bore. OSU beat Purdue 49-0, and we actually left at the end of the third quarter. I can’t remember the last time I left the Shoe, blowout or not, before singing Chimes and Carmen Ohio. Further cements how things have changed, I guess.

I then spent the rest of the day with a dear old college buddy and his fiancée, drinking $4 cans of Budweiser, and watching a cover-band who hasn’t progressed in their musical or performance ability since I left that town three years ago. By the time we went to El Vaquaro for dinner I was fading fast. I hardly remember the cab ride back to my buddy’s house, not because I was so drunk, but rather, I was so tired. If I were in Pamplona that weekend, the bulls would’ve run me over by the third turn in the road. Sad, but true.

It’s funny how a place like Clear Creek stays locked in time, but a place like my old college town escaped me like a dream that once was but can never be again.

Leg Three

CLEAR CREEK, PA

Arrived in Clear Creek, PA, 9:30 P.M.
Jeep Odometer: 191, 611 mi.
Trip Odometer: 602 mi.

The only thing worse than a four-hour drive turning in to a six and a half hour drive (thanks American Recovery Act!) is arriving at the campground just as the rain starts falling. First it was just a sprinkle, then it was a light drizzle, and finally it was a steady downpour. I had one moment where I lost my temper. I won’t share what I said, but it involved wanting to sit by a fire and a four-letter word turned into an adjective. Momentarily I thought about turning around, heading back to the highway, and driving another ninety minutes to Dad’s house. But in that same moment I had to question my manhood. I can live with other people thinking I “gave up” because I don’t really care what other people think about anything, but I can’t live with myself thinking, “I gave up” or “I’m a __” (I’ll let you fill in the blank).

So I drove to my campsite (32) and found a slightly dry spot under a large pine tree. Then I debated what was worse: sleeping on a dry tree roots or wet grass? I went with the tree roots and set up the tent in a matter of minutes. Then I made a run to the “wood shed” that everyone RAVED about, and the d*mn thing was locked! It’s a really good thing they keep it wide-open mid-day when it’s seventy degrees and sunny, but fastened with a heavy duty/Hurt Locker deadbolt when it’s cold, dark, and steadily raining. So I sifted through the stacks of wood that were next to it, attempting to find the driest logs possible. I tossed about fifteen in the back of the Jeep and shunned the “honor code” drop box. I wanted to see how “honorable” their wet logs would be before dropping any cash in the box.

When I got back to the site I tried building a fire. It appeared to be roaring after a few minutes, despite the rain, and so I cracked a celebratory Yuengling…okay, my fourth celebratory Yuengling by that point. Five minutes later I realized the “roaring” part was the newspaper, church bulletins, and fire starting chips. I must admit, it was quite deceiving. Maybe the Lord wasn’t happy about the bulletin part, but I’ve never seen a paper fire sustain through a rainstorm for ten solid minutes. Time after time I tried getting the logs to ignite but with no success. Around midnight I decided to build the best paper fire possible and cook the grass-fed sirloin Sean gave me. I roasted that sucker on a steak knife to a perfect medium-rare. Then I took it down to the bank of the Clarion River and I devoured it with my bare hands. It was truly the most animalistic moment of my life.

Finally I decided to take a walk “around the Circle”. I had never done it alone. So I grabbed the flashlight, tucked an extra brew in my fleece pocket, and started the 1 A.M. trek into the darkness. I won’t describe the walk; I wouldn’t want to scare you, but it was SPOOKY indeed. I also learned that a great weapon in defending fear is inebriation. But no matter how many brews you put down, you sober up immediately when a 10-point buck thunders across the pavement at the darkest stretch of the walk. I was lucky the six or seven Yuenglings didn’t go from “down the hatch” to “down my leg”…or perhaps they did; I was already soaked from the rain, how could I decipher which was which? When I got back to the tent the fire was completely out. So I set up my bed and called it a night.

In the morning I went for a walk and took some good pictures. I packed the Jeep and prepared to leave. But before I did, I wrote the following:

10/22/10
1:40 P.M.

I was going to wake up and just leave so I could make it to Columbus by four o’clock, but I decided against it. I went for a walk with my camera in hand and I talked to myself about the recurring childhood memories of this place and the times I spent here with my family. It’s a place that’s locked in time, nestled so far down in the Allegheny Mountains that either no one knows about it, or they do, and they wish to keep it as it is—a secret.

There is no cell phone reception, no internet, no television, and only a faint chance of catching a radio signal. When people pass one another it’s with a “hello” and a smile. Even the river seems to whisper secrets as it meanders over and through the moss-covered rocks. And in between the chirping of the birds, there it is—the beautiful sound of silence.

I don’t know if it’s the multitude of fond memories, memories of youth and now memories of adulthood, the nostalgia of Marnie and Boompa first making the trek down Route 739 almost sixty years ago, or the echoes of children playing both then and now, but I hear it all, I soak it all in, with each autumn breeze that sifts past my eyes.

Sometimes I think I could sit here forever, like the kid in me who once vowed to live here when he was “grown up”, but I think it is the brevity of the visits only so often, which keeps this well of joy from ever running dry.

Now I must go.

Love and GOD Forever,
Anthony Paul

Leg Two

DINGMAN’S FERRY, PA

Arrived in Dingman’s Ferry, PA, 9 P.M.
Jeep Odometer: 191, 321 miles
Trip Odometer: 313 miles

I arrived at the Wilson’s very relieved to see the faces of a sister and a brother, two nieces, and a warm bowl of chicken noodle soup—I have a bad habit of not eating on long drives. As usual, Sarah Marie was standoffish at first, but after roughly five minutes she was all over me. Lucy has grown so much since my visit in May, and not just physically. Her personality is emerging by the day and she even muttered “Pppp….piiii…pppp…a” by the third day.

Ten minutes after I arrived the water shut off. Although I still question the proximity of my arrival and the need to suddenly replace the water pump as quite a coincidence, I’ll take Ali’s word for it, and eliminate the idea of being coerced to northwest Pennsylvania as cheap labor :)

The next day, around one o’clock Sean walked into the kitchen having just replaced the water tank in the crawl space below. He turned the faucet and nothing. I’m pretty sure he muttered something that I won’t repeat, and I can’t blame him, I was muttering those same words just an hour later. “I’m going to need your help,” he said. From the tone of his voice it sounded like it was a tug here and a pull there…fifteen minutes later I’d be playing Chutes and Ladders with Sarah Marie. How gullible could I have been? If someone makes something sound like it’s ‘not that big of a deal’ put your gloves up because you’re going to get punched in the mouth. Nevertheless, I followed him out to the well and peaked in. “See that pipe down there?” he said. “We need to pull that out.” It looked simple; it sounded simple. The top of the pipe was about seven or eight feet from the top of the well casing…

Two and a half hours later I’m sucking wind, as well as second-hand smoke, as Sean and I yank the water pump (100 pounds of dead weight) over the top of the casing and onto the ground. In the yard was five-hundred feet of rubber piping spiraling left and right. The job was halfway done. We had to go to Lowes, buy a new pump, return home, hook it up, and drop it back down in the well. All in all it took us about nine hours to do it, but we had some good laughs, and I found new respect for blue-collar laborers, both present and past. There’s something to be said about getting your hands, forearms, elbows, shoulders, chest, face and hair covered in muck and mud and mountain well water just to insure that your sister and nieces will be able to bathe and wash the dishes. Not to mention, a cold Yuengling and a hot dinner never tasted so good.

Wednesday was much more “chill”. Ali and I took the girls to Dingman’s Falls and went for a walk. We took some good pictures, too. When we got home, Sean called and said he was sent home from work (lower back pain)…that’s the difference between 32 and 26, I guess. So Ali made dinner while Sarah Marie kicked my ass in Chutes and Ladders. Then we played “Party Jenga” after dinner, and I learned some interesting “truths” about my sister and her husband…for the right price I will definitely share. Just kidding. Snitches get stitches where I come from.

Finally, I packed up the Jeep on Thursday afternoon, four hours behind schedule, and said my goodbyes. I blessed the Wilson home as I pulled away, and I started heading in the direction of my favorite place in the world.

2010 Westward Odyssey; Leg One

Monday, October 18, 2010
Departing Cape Cod, 2 P.M.

I am finally packed and ready to depart…six days behind schedule. I have decided to pass on the New England (Maine, New Hampshire, Vermont) portion of the trip on account of weather, time, and a desire to share those moments of newness and awe in the future with someone by my side.

Instead, I am going to visit Ali, Sean, Sarah Marie and Lucy Rose. I have been able to spend a great deal of time alone this past year, which has been tremendous towards the building of my Faith and trust in God. I am sure, as well, that I will get to spend a significant amount of time alone on the road and, finally, the Rocky Mountains of Colorado this winter. Although it may not be as exciting as braving the elements of nature, I am first choosing the warmth and unconditional care of loved ones.

Bon Voyage! Au Avoir, my cottage by the sea,
APV

Guilty But Forgiven

Roland stood humbly between his past and his destiny. He was dressed in orange from head to toe awaiting the words of the man with the gavel. Then he was asked if he had anything more to say before the decision was made final.

“No sir. I’ve said all that I needed to say.”

“Okay then,” the man said, “due to insufficient evidence of rehabilitation, and an unconvincing remorse for the crimes committed, the motion for parole has been refused.”

Roland was guilty; he never denied it. He fully intended to rob the gas station nearly thirty years to the date, but he never intended to kill anyone. Night after night he tossed and turned on his cold metal bed, the sights of a mother and daughter lying face down in each other’s blood haunting him until he fell asleep and the nightmares set in. Three decades of prayer and asking God’s forgiveness didn’t change the way he felt—guilty, and the warden’s gavel cemented the feeling into him for what he thought would be forever.

The guards walked him back to his cell, and when the steel door opened he was pushed inside. He held his hands through a small opening and waited to be unchained. When the shackles were removed, the slot was closed. He was home.

“No luck amigo?” his cellmate said.

“No, Miguel. No luck.”

“I’m sorry, amigo. Hopefully next time.”

“Yeah. Next time.”

There would be no “next time” though. It was his last chance at parole. It was his last chance for freedom.

Before climbing into his bed and hiding under the coarse woolen blanket, he sat down at the small desk and picked up his pen to write a letter.

Dear Mother and Daughter,
May the peace and joy of God’s Resting Place be with you. I should be there, in the ground, not you. My life should have been taken, not yours. God brought three lives into this world, and I took all three of them away. I have tried and tried, but I don’t think I can ever forgive myself. I am prepared to endure the fires of hell, so long as you may rest in peace.

I was denied parole for the final time today. The warden says I haven’t been rehabilitated. I know that I would never do such a thing again, but I also know that I did do it, and so I must pay the full price.
The walls and the steel bars and the shackles do not bother me anymore. I feel no more imprisoned by them than I would an open field. What imprisons me is not being able to forgive myself for what I’ve done. This world is no longer in need of me. I have taken and taken, but I give nothing back. Perhaps I will finally give the world something good by taking myself away.

Rest in God’s Peace,
Roland

He folded the notepad and stacked it on top of the others. Thirty years of writing letters, all of them more or less the same, with nowhere to be sent, so they piled up instead, serving as a reminder of the wrong he had done. Finally, he climbed into bed, pulled his blanket over his aging body and said, “Buenos noches, Miguel.”

“Good night, Roland,” the voice from above returned.

As he lied in bed, unable to sleep, he accepted his fate. He was going to find a way to kill himself. He would wait until the next day, so Miguel wouldn’t have to be in the room when he did it. With his parole denied so was his chance to seek the forgiveness of the family he deprived a mother and a daughter, a wife and a sister. He didn’t say his prayers that night. He no longer sought salvation. Both had escaped him at the warden’s desk.

Morning came and the slot in the door slid open. He reached his hands through and waited to be shackled for the last time. Then he followed Miguel and the others down the long, narrow walkway to his last meal.

He chewed slowly, enjoying every bite. He was sure they didn’t serve breakfast in hell. When he was done, and the bell rang, he joined the others in line. He looked at Miguel, who was on his way to the library for school, and he said, “Farewell, brother.”

“I’ll see you later, amigo.”

Then he walked coolly and methodically to his resting place.

The steel door opened and he stepped inside. He held his hands through the opening and waited. He was relieved of the shackles, and as usual, they left rings around his wrists. Rings he often sat and stared at for hours.

He sat down at the small desk, looked at the stacks of notepads to his left, and took the ink pen into his right hand. He held it over his left wrist. Then he raised it to his neck. He wanted it to be quick. He wanted it to be final.

Three knocks echoed through the steel door. Then the slot was opened.

“Looks like you’ve got a letter,” said the voice on the other side.

“No letter,” he said. “No one sends me letters.”

“Roland Tynes? Number 06772?”

“Well yes, that’s me, but I don’t know anyone who would send me a letter.”

“Do you want it or not?”

“Yes. I’ll take it.”

The envelope was dropped through the slot, sailed up and down through the air, and landed on the cold cement floor. He set the pen down on the desk and walked over to the letter. He picked it up and sat down on his bed. Then he opened it and read:

Dear Roland,

This letter is very difficult for me to compose. I believe it’s been a long time coming, and I only wish it relieves you by reading it as much as it relieves me to write it. Thirty years ago you killed my mother and sister as my mother was finishing her shift at a gas station in north Houston. That crime and loss of my loved ones orphaned me at the age of 6. I was in school when it happened, causing me to never see either one of them again. I spent the rest of my youth in and out of foster homes, until succeeding enough in high school to earn a full scholarship to the University of Texas.

I never forgot what happened to my mother and sister, and because of it, I set out to pursue a career in law. I graduated top of my class, applied and was accepted to law school in Chicago, and since I have made a very comfortable life in the Midwest with a wife and three kids. Slowly over time the wounds of my childhood healed, but not fully. I came to grips with the loss, and I believe that both my mother and sister are at peace with the Lord.

I have prayed and prayed, but the wound has never entirely healed. Then I sought the guidance of my priest. I told him my entire story, from beginning to end, and I explained to him how I can’t find the last bit of healing I need. Word for word he went through the Lord’s Prayer with me. When we neared the end, a light went on in my head. “Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us.”

He advised me to think of all of the people who have done wrong to me, and if possible, find those individuals and offer my forgiveness. I sought every friend, co-worker, and businessman who I felt “wronged” me at some point or another. I extended my hand, and in most cases I was well received. Little by little I felt the wound closing up. Finally, I couldn’t find anyone else who had done wrong to me. The wound was only one stitch away from being closed forever.

I never thought I’d be able to do this. I was sure that I’d hate and revile the man who took the lives of my mother and sister forever. I wanted that man to be executed and taken out of this world with them. The anger and hate took deep roots within my soul, and by ignoring the memory altogether, I didn’t know I possessed such evil within me. I would like to note that I am not only doing this for myself, but for you as well. I want the healing I’ve yearned, but I also want healing for you, too. I want you to know that I forgive you. I have prayed for you. I have asked God to forgive you. I truly hope that you have sought the Lord’s forgiveness. I no longer wish evil upon you, rather, I wish you salvation.

I cannot imagine we will ever meet. I don’t know if I’ll ever possess that kind of courage. But the Lord works in very mysterious ways, as evident by this letter. Please accept my forgiveness Roland. Please know that you are one of God’s children like everyone else, regardless of your past, and that He wants you with Him when He decides.

Your Brother in Christ,
Juan Jose M.

Roland trembled as tears rolled off his cheeks and fell through the air before landing like raindrops on the letter’s surface. He was free.

He carried the letter to his desk, grabbed the notepad at the top of the stack, and opened it to the first blank page.

Dear Juan Jose,

Thank you. You saved my life. You freed me from the shackles that have imprisoned me for thirty years. I accept your forgiveness. I hope to see you and your mother and your sister one day in Heaven. Thank you.

Your Brother in Christ,
Roland

When he was finished writing the short letter, the first of many similar letters he would compose over the last years of his life, he closed the cover of the notepad and placed it on the ground, next to the tall stack of others, as new beginning.