Writing Resources from Fifteen Minutes of Fiction
An EndAt one point, I must have been sad. There was a time when I must have had some kind of disappointment or let down. There has to have been a moment of pure depression or unhappiness. But when?
All I remember now, here, at this end, is love.
Back at the beginning, my mother loved me first. She was the first one to know of my existence, of my small and fragile life that cohabited with her. Then my father was next to love me. I was unborn, but I was loved.
Later, I would love my siblings and they would love me. I would meet my grandparents and my relatives, and there would be more love. I had a big family.
Much later, there would be friends. I had lots of guys that I would hang out with, and though we never really told each other, we loved each other. I guess it's my way to not say it as much as I should.
And even later, there would be girlfriends and women that I loved. I can see their faces in my mind, even now, after all this time. I can recall every flawless detail of their beauty. I loved all of them in some way.
The woman I loved the most was my own wife. She understood me more than I understood myself most of the time.
Later, I would be the second to love my own children. There were three of them.
I spent my years loving my family and my job. I learned to love learning, and then I loved my occupation. I was one of the few people who were called to do what they did. Giving was my life's legacy.
I can remember all of this love, and all of these beautiful, happy times. Yet I remember these things called unhappiness, ugliness, sadness, anger. I remember that they must have existed somewhere, sometime back there.
I guess they never really mattered.
I look forward.
"Hallo thayr," says a voice out of the blank. I never suspected that God would be British.
I try to respond, but I can't even remember my own voice or how to make a word. I look up helplessly, but my mind is calm. There is no need to be frustrated or pained here, I suppose.
"Don't warry thayr, child," says the voice, dragging the vowel of "child."
I trust the voice, and try to determine if maybe God learned his Brit accent on a farm in the south, because He may also have some kind of hillybilly twang.
I take a few steps and drop a few feet. Wherever I am now, I suppose, there isn't any sadness left.
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