Flirting With the Wind

Soon I saw Sergeant Stiglitz coming towards me from the guest house that I assumed the soldiers were quartered in; his uniform jacket no longer on wearing the uniform slacks with only a white button down shirt that hung lackadaisically in a disheveled manner on his body. I gave a smile seeing him in his less than strict and clean cut self. He was smoking a cigarette as he always seemed to be.

“Addicting little things aren’t they,” I comment gesturing to his cigarette that he held between his lips.
“They are,” he nods.
“You know you don’t have to bother yourself by keeping me company, I’m not going to run off into the woods at this time of night,” I jest.
“You certainly will make for an interesting nun,” Sergeant Stiglitz comments.
“That would require an unwavering belief in God,” I state pointedly.
“What would?” he asks.
“To be a nun,” I answer.
“So you were lying when you said you were becoming a nun,” Sergeant Stiglitz says looking at me.
“No, I said I aspired to join the convent, I said nothing of actually becoming a nun, just merely aspire, and I aspire to do a lot of things,” I smile.
“Do you have a problem with Colonel Landa?” he inquires intently.
“Not particularly,” I reply. I wasn’t going to say that I thought Colonel Landa to be calculative and conniving to another person let alone someone that could very well inform Colonel Landa of my very thoughts even if I felt I could trust Sergeant Stiglitz I had to be careful with my words. I wasn’t completely daft.

“They are sneaking out again,” Sergeant Stiglitz says sounding irritated.
“Is this a recurring event with them?” I inquire as we watched my two cousins climbing down the vine lattice.
“Unfortunately,” he mutters.
“I regrettably was the one that taught them how to sneak out,” I admit.
“You taught them that?” Sergeant Stiglitz questions incredulously.
“Don’t give me that look, I know I’m a lousy teacher,” I state.
“Why do you say you’re a lousy teacher?” he inquires.
“Because they are doing it all wrong,” I say.
“How so?” Sergeant asks.
“Watch Bridget, she’s going to trip over that tree root there into the mud, then Darcy with her awful reflexes will fall over Bridget, it really is going to be comical to watch,” I reply as the girls started in the direction of the tree root. As my prediction entailed soon the twins were on the ground and I turned to see Sergeant Stiglitz laughing musically. To be honest he looked wonderful with his eyes so full of life and enjoyment. I chuckled along with him taking joy in his happiness. The twins got up quickly spotting us in the soft moonlight in the gardens laughing. Now their plans of going out ruined they headed over towards us as we laughed harder upon seeing their mud covered dresses.

“It’s not funny,” Darcy states narrowing her eyes at me.
“Oh darling you have no idea how funny this is,” I respond wiping a tear from my eye as Sergeant Stiglitz and I tried to compose ourselves.
“I’m going to go wash this filth off me,” Bridget announces with great displeasure as she turned and headed back to the house.
“I’m doing the same, nun,” Darcy says referring me as the nun. Darcy left and I turned to Sergeant Stiglitz with a smile.
“Karma is a lovely thing don’t you think?” I state.
“It does have its perks at times,” he responds.
“It was nice speaking with you Sergeant Stiglitz, have a good night,” I reply with a grin as I waved goodbye whilst I made my way back to the house.
“Goodnight Mira,” I swear I heard him murmur when my back was turned to him as I walked. But then again I could have been hearing things.

The next week and a half was actually great. My father and uncle got along famously; whilst I took joy in their newfound closeness. It was a Thursday when my father and I were enjoying a lunch out in the garden that the unthinkable happened; he fell ill. This was not like all the other times but it was the time. I tried to keep it together but now my uncle along with the rest of the family knew of my father’s illness. My Uncle Frederick was furious with me and quite often avoided me. It was getting harder to refrain from crying.

“Miss Shepherd how long has he been like this?” the doctor questions me as I sat at the kitchen table where my Aunt Catherine was trying to force me to eat something. I hardly had eaten anything nor did I sleep much I literally was dragged out of my father’s room to be out in the kitchen.
“Too long,” I say sadly.
“He’s lucky to have lasted this long, you have been taking good care of him Miss Shepherd,” the doctor says placing a hand on my shoulder.
“Don’t patronize me,” I snap giving the doctor a harsh unwavering look that frightened him slightly and he pulled his hand back like I were a snake that were about to sink my venomous fangs into him, “Touch me again you pretentious bastard and you’ll be needing someone to taking good care of you.”
“Mirabel,” Aunt Catherine says sounding shocked by my actions.
“I’m done with this, I’m going to spend what time I had left with my father,” I announce getting up and headed back to my father’s bedroom. I didn’t want to eat or sit listening to some asshole tell me that I did my best or that he was sorry for the loss that hadn’t even occurred yet. How fucking pretentious could a person be? Fuck him.

As soon as I was in the room I tried to remove all negative energy from my body before entering the room. Sergeant Stiglitz was speaking with my uncle whom had his back to me whilst Sergeant Stiglitz locked eyes with me. It was a bit much for me to even look at anyone without having a complete melt down so I forced myself to walk into my father’s room.

“How about you read me that story you love so much Mira,” my father says weakly as I sat next to him whilst the other doctor examined him.
“Which one?” I ask tenderly.
“Your favorite one,” he states.
“Ok,” I reply as I got up to head to my room where I grabbed my book. It was the short story by Oscar Wilde called The Happy Prince. Once I got back to the room the doctor had gone to talk to my uncle. I sat myself down in the chair next to my father’s bed and opened up the tattered book.

“Poppa, I can read something else,” I suggest knowing full well that this story was a sad one.
“I see you read it countless times but never once have had read it myself, I want to hear you read it to me Mira,” my father replies.
“But it’s a sad story,” I say softly.
“I’ll be the judge of that now go on read it to me,” he states. I let out a sigh and began reading the story. My father listened intently and I kept my eyes on the words printed on the pages; reading them aloud for my father to hear. The story went on with the little swallow staying with the Happy Prince; being his eyes and ears of the town obliging to his ever command. The Happy Prince with such love for others gave to those suffering not caring that he now looked shabby by giving up his golden layers leaf by leaf for the starving children to be able to buy bread.

“The poor little swallow grew colder and colder but he would not leave the prince, he loved him too well,” I kept reading as tears welled up in my eyes clouding my vision. I knew the words so well and kept on reading coming to the climatic heart wrenching moment of the story.

But at last he knew that he was going to die. He had just enough strength to fly up to the prince’s shoulder once more. ‘Goodbye dear prince!’ he murmured, ‘will you let me kiss your hand?’
‘I am glad that you are going to Egypt at last, little swallow,’ said the prince, ‘you stayed too long here; but you must kiss me on the lips for I love you.’
‘It is not Egypt that I am going,’ said the swallow. ‘I am going to the House of Death. Death is the brother of Sleep is he not?’ And he kissed the Happy Prince on the lips. And fell down dead at his feet. At that moment a curious crack sounded inside the statue, as if something had broken. The fact is that the leaden heart had snapped right in two. It certainly was a dreadfully hard frost.
I took in a sharp intake of air trying to contain my tears and looked up at my father who was staring at me intently.
“Is that the ending?” he asks.
“No,” I sigh.
“Well go on,” my father continues. I took a deep breath and continued to read to him the story. How the town councilors and mayor took down the Happy Prince claiming he looked ‘little better than a beggar,’ no longer golden or encrusted with precious stones. The part in which the overseer of the workman at the foundry that was given the job to melt the statue down to make a new one telling the others to throw away the broken leaden heart that refused to melt. On a dust heap the heart was thrown where the dead swallow lay.

‘Bring me the two most precious things in the city,’ said God to one of his angels; and the angel brought him the Leaden Heart and the dead bird.
‘You have rightly chosen,’ said God, ‘for in my garden of Paradise this little bird shall sing for evermore, and in my city of gold the Happy Prince shall praise me.’
Reading the last line I closed the book and looked up at my father. A single tear having escaped from my eyes, my father reached out wiping it away with his hand.
“Why do you believe it is a sad story Mira? In the end everything was alright with them,” my father says.
“It is sad because that no longer holding any outwardly beauty the Happy Prince was discarded, it is sad because of how blind people are to what truly matters and how hopelessly selfish people can be,” I reply sadly.
“I love you Mira, and though I never say it I am proud my daughter has a mind of her very own,” he counters with a soft smile as he held my hand kissing it gently.
“I love you Poppa,” I say.
“How about we have my last whiskeys together ya?” my father suggests.
“Ya,” I reply with a foolish chuckle as I wiped my eyes with my free hand.
“I have some in a bottle over by my suitcase with two glasses,” he states.
“Okay,” I reply getting up to get the bottle of whiskey and two glasses. Carefully I placed the two glasses on the dresser and poured about two shot glass worth’s of whiskey into the glasses then headed back over to my father’s bed that he lied on propped up with several pillows. I handed my father his glass of whiskey and waited holding mine in my left hand delicately.
“To my daughter, may live a long life flirting with the wind for many years to come,” my father says with a smile. I smiled back at his reference to the story then we clanked glasses together. My father and I brought the glasses to our lips then drink our whiskey. The warm whiskey burned the back of my throat but I polished it off as my father had, avoiding how awful it settled in my empty stomach.

My father set the glass down on the bed stand and I did the very same. I held his hand until his went limp in mine. The minutes passed as I tried to comprehend his death that didn’t seem real. His hand lost its warmth and I wanted so dearly to never let go. Another warm delicate hand rested on my shoulder and I let go of my father’s hand rushing out of the room without saying another word. I ignored every call and every person I passed, my blank face holding it ground on my features as I exited the house. As I took my step just outside the boundaries for the garden I broke into a sprint heading straight for the dark woods that beckoned to me with brittle finger-like branches.

I ran so fast, pushing myself harder and further no matter what my brain said; no matter how many passing branches whipped against my bare arms and legs. After what seemed like forever running in the dense forest my legs buckled beneath me and I broke down on my knees sobbing for the loss of my father. My cries were mangled with despair and pure psychological pain. I cried the hardest I had ever cried in my life, not only for my father’s death but my mother’s as well because I had never gotten the chance to let myself truly feel that loss. With my knees to my chest and arms wrapped tightly around my shaking frame I cried lying on my side not caring about what seemed to be trivial matters such as the cold that caused my body to shiver. Closing my eyes I wanted nothing more than to sleep in hopes of meeting his brother Death.