Solitary

  Solitary

                He was a tall man, thin but not overtly so. His glasses accented his silken face, with their dark rims blending into his salt and pepper hair. His unyielding posture said everything you needed to know about him. His demeanor was stoic and solemn, never giving in to emotion or hysteria. His home lies just outside a great city, with poplar sidings and dark oak window frames. Giant pine trees stand interspersed around his home like guardians of the natural world. It was a tranquil setting, best enjoyed by those with the capacity to be delighted by the magnificence of Mother Nature, or so that is what he believed. He never invited anyone to his home, not even his one and only daughter. His wife passed before he bought his home, and the rest of his family is now with God. He loved that his property was so pure and untarnished. It thrilled him to know that he was the only inhabitant of this twenty-acre land.

Like most days, he sat in his black leather trimmed recliner, surrounded by books of all shapes and colors; stacked sometimes ten high on the hardwood floor that covered his living room. The great authors always stayed close by: Tolstoy, Faulkner, and Dostoevsky, all the men who were given the gift of literary genius. Before these however, he reads the Bible. It gives him hope for a better tomorrow, as he gently turns each page with his forefinger and thumb, breathing in each word. He was in the middle of a pivotal scene when the phone rang. He exhaled, annoyed, and reached towards the nightstand next to his recliner. “Hello?” he asked.

“Dad, it’s me! How are you?” a soft voice beckons.

“You know I’m fine, what do you want?”

“Oh, nothing, I was just calling to see how you’re doing.”

“Well, I’m no different today than the last time you called” he says, increasingly irritated.

“Okay, would you like to meet for dinner this weekend?” she begs.

“No, I’m busy.” He hopes this will shut the conversation off immediately, to no avail.

“Alright, how about next week then…”

“No, not next week, not this weekend,” he yells.

“Dad, I’m worried about you. I haven’t seen you in 6 months.”

“Well, I’m fine. Goodbye!” He hangs up, abruptly ending the third phone call this week from his daughter, who lives just forty miles away on the opposite side of the great city.

                His blood boils and he becomes uncomfortable in his place. He quickly gets up and makes his way towards the window overlooking the pasture behind his house. He rests against the windowsill, staring out into the wild, hoping to see a fawn taking its first steps, or a warbler taking flight from high up in the pines. He takes a deep breath, exhales slowly, and finds his way back to his chair. He lifts up the Bible and stares at the pages, with their sides encrusted in gold. Something is nagging him in the recesses of his mind. He wonders if maybe he should have given his daughter a fighting chance at rekindling their relationship. He quickly shakes off this feeling, but can’t go back to reading. He sets the book down, and prays. He asks God for one thing and for one thing only, solitude. He begs for freedom from nagging family and to never have an encounter with a single human being, for the rest of his life. He begs God to rid him of all people, family and strangers alike, so that he will be able to read his books in peace and quiet.  And it was so. He feels a calm settle over him like a warm blanket. Feeling composed and worry-free, he goes back to his readings. Free interruptions, he picks up a heavy book. He exchanges the Bible for The Idiot, one of Dostoevsky’s classic works. He starts from the beginning, focused only on the words on the page, nothing else.

                Without a single disturbance, years pass by like seconds in the day. The old man reads relentlessly, from morning till night, from sunrise to sunset. In his dreams, he sees golden pastures rise before him under blue skies. Every day is filled with pages of other worlds, created by great minds many years ago. His days are joyous and wonderful. He could not imagine life being anything else. And it was so; every night he inserted one of his best bookmarks into his current literary indulgence, laid the paperback on top of another, and adjourned to his place of slumber. There he rested until morning, where he resumed the readings of the night before, still enchanted by the narrative of places so calm and tranquil.

                Life was comfortable for the old man, until one morning when he awoke to an excruciating pain in his chest. Before the first breath of the day could pass through his lips, he fell to the floor in agony. On his knees, he clutched his chest with both hands. Pain radiated throughout his body as he writhed on the floor. He reached for the phone, grasping it in both hands. Suddenly, a painful jolt passed through his body from his chest, radiating down into his bones. The phone dropped from his hands. He picked it up and dialed 9-1-1. Still, in tremendous pain, he listened as the line continued to ring and ring. A minute later, no one answered. PLEASE HELP ME he exalted to whoever would be on the other line. No one was there. He hung up and dialed the number to his daughter; but again, no answer. A second shockwave of pain rattled through his body, throwing the phone from his grasp. He reached towards the Heavens and begged of God: Please God, help me! You’ve got to help me! I’m dying! There was silence