The Ghost of You
Five.
Five.
On the cusp of synchronised serendipity. He must have only been a mere nineteen years old. Less blue eyed boy, more wide eyed browns. Paler than Henry the VIII’s tax collector, I expected the harsh sunlight to make agony to his untarnished complexion. Crookedly rounded gold frames barely supporting thick trifocals balanced precariously on the curve of his bent, narrow nose. He had a silently nervous disposition and all the mannerisms of the new kid at school. Taller than most but lacking a few pounds, to everyone around he was nothing notable. Maybe a little “nerdy” he, like myself, was a loner in the camp. He’d sit alone in the light-deprived corners as he ate, slept as soon as the opportunity arose and generally kept to himself. Try as I might I could not conjure the peculiar image of this innocent young man pulling the trigger on an enemy. Maybe he thought the same of me.
It was by pure chance that we ventured into conversation one stormy night. Call it chance, maybe it was fate, I consider it luck. The mail from home had arrived, hand written with sincerity and love, fresh from the United States. By this miserable point I had learned that nothing of such was addressed to me, the only person I would have wanted to hear from was under more dirt than a Washington Congressman. Occasionally I would receive a petty paragraph of self-righteous words from my parents. Mommy’s friends think I’m such a big brave boy. Yet even those inky drones were rare. That night however, a crisp rectangular piece of home was thrust into my puzzled palms. The addressee on the envelope was “Michael Simmons”. I sighed deeply, frustrated with the knowledge that someone else’s mistake meant me consequently, awkwardly asking the names of men I’d spent every day with for months to find out if the letter belonged to them. As I approached the militant yearling who beheld a presence so gentle it was almost startling, he gazed up at me with thoughtful eyes and spoke softly: “Yes, that’s me Sir.”
Sir? I was perplexed by the very notion that someone would deem me in such a position of high regard. I wondered if he was intimidated by my irritated agitation or whether he was just brought up in impeccable standards. Either way I could tell instantaneously that this young man was different. Not the kind of different which drives someone to dress bizarrely, or choose to paint his house a peculiar colour. He was the kind of different that he thought differently, almost as if his brain was wired differently from the rest of us. It wasn’t fear in his glassy eyes, it was optimism. The warmth of his smile prophesised divine promise. It was almost intoxicating. I ached to know more about this encouraging Maverick; therefore in a bid of companionship, I extended my eager hand to shake his. I never anticipated that this stranger would change my life.
On the cusp of synchronised serendipity. He must have only been a mere nineteen years old. Less blue eyed boy, more wide eyed browns. Paler than Henry the VIII’s tax collector, I expected the harsh sunlight to make agony to his untarnished complexion. Crookedly rounded gold frames barely supporting thick trifocals balanced precariously on the curve of his bent, narrow nose. He had a silently nervous disposition and all the mannerisms of the new kid at school. Taller than most but lacking a few pounds, to everyone around he was nothing notable. Maybe a little “nerdy” he, like myself, was a loner in the camp. He’d sit alone in the light-deprived corners as he ate, slept as soon as the opportunity arose and generally kept to himself. Try as I might I could not conjure the peculiar image of this innocent young man pulling the trigger on an enemy. Maybe he thought the same of me.
It was by pure chance that we ventured into conversation one stormy night. Call it chance, maybe it was fate, I consider it luck. The mail from home had arrived, hand written with sincerity and love, fresh from the United States. By this miserable point I had learned that nothing of such was addressed to me, the only person I would have wanted to hear from was under more dirt than a Washington Congressman. Occasionally I would receive a petty paragraph of self-righteous words from my parents. Mommy’s friends think I’m such a big brave boy. Yet even those inky drones were rare. That night however, a crisp rectangular piece of home was thrust into my puzzled palms. The addressee on the envelope was “Michael Simmons”. I sighed deeply, frustrated with the knowledge that someone else’s mistake meant me consequently, awkwardly asking the names of men I’d spent every day with for months to find out if the letter belonged to them. As I approached the militant yearling who beheld a presence so gentle it was almost startling, he gazed up at me with thoughtful eyes and spoke softly: “Yes, that’s me Sir.”
Sir? I was perplexed by the very notion that someone would deem me in such a position of high regard. I wondered if he was intimidated by my irritated agitation or whether he was just brought up in impeccable standards. Either way I could tell instantaneously that this young man was different. Not the kind of different which drives someone to dress bizarrely, or choose to paint his house a peculiar colour. He was the kind of different that he thought differently, almost as if his brain was wired differently from the rest of us. It wasn’t fear in his glassy eyes, it was optimism. The warmth of his smile prophesised divine promise. It was almost intoxicating. I ached to know more about this encouraging Maverick; therefore in a bid of companionship, I extended my eager hand to shake his. I never anticipated that this stranger would change my life.
♠ ♠ ♠
mhmm.