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Authors: Loren Lockner
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my soul.’ An excruciating pain exploded in his chest and as he climaxed he felt as if a twisting knife had been thrust into his heart.
“ He glanced down and saw my mother struggled with some intense, overwhelming pain, and he was deathly afraid he’d somehow killed her. Mom’s hand flew to her chest and she gasped out his name. A couple of minutes later, when both could finally speak, Dad noticed a warm feeling stealing over his chest, as if a vessel that had been partly emptied was once again being refilled with a liquid that warmed and soothed like a good cognac, for she too had given him her soul. Mom had silently called out his name and had taken his soul back in to herself.”
“Wow,” said Angie , as Seth paused. Paul leaned back in the booth, his arms crossed defensively before him. He clearly didn’t believe a word of it
“And I thought you were a sane, rational man .”
“Paul, shut up!” exclaimed Angie. “And...?”
“Later, when they were calmer , they spoke about it. My father, always the skeptic, didn’t really believe that it happened and wrote off the pain in his chest as some sort of fluke during lovemaking. But that evening as my mother returned to her dorm room, my father felt a strange pang in his breast as if he couldn’t bear for her to apart from him. Mom whirled about and gave him a halfhearted wave from the downstairs landing, a strange expression flitting over her face. That night a soft despair settled over him and all he could do was think of her, visualizing her stretched out upon her narrow bed, eyes fastened upon the ceiling as she fantasized about him.
“ Suddenly Dad realized that part of her was in him, and he was in her. It was almost as if some sort of telepathy had instantly developed between the two. When she entered a room he didn’t have to turn around to instinctively know she was there; he could feel it by the warmth in his chest and the glow in his heart.”
“You have got to be kidding,” said Paul disgustedly.
“I wish I were, and it’s that unbreakable bond between my mother and father that finally killed him.”
“What ?” gasped Angie, her dark brown eyes widening.
“It’s true. When I was twenty-four my mother was diagnosed with ovarian cancer. From the time of her diagnosis to her death, only a scant five weeks elapsed. My father had no time to prepare himself for her death and upon her passing sank into a deep depression. I myself was too aggrieved to understand that my father needed help. One day, four months later, when I returned home after an evening of drinking and carousing with my buddies in an effort to forget the memory of my mother’s frail face and wasted body, I saw my father hunched over in his comfortable old chair where he’d watch TV beside my mother when she was alive. He had aged ten years in those four months, his hair turning prematurely white even though he was only fifty years old.
“ He sat in the chair with a picture album spread open upon his knees and scanned photographs of our family. I remember kneeling down to watch his fingers caress a worn and cherished photograph of my mother; one that had been taken in 1967 right after he’d met her. The sadness in his eyes was so pathetic that I wanted to cry at his obvious despair.”
“ ‘She’s gone now,’ he said to me, as if I didn’t realize my own mother was dead. ‘I know,’ I answered, and reached out a hand to pat his thin knee.”
“ ‘There’s no more warmth,’ he moaned. ‘When she died she took half my soul with her and I can’t exist on this earth without her; without the other half of my soul. What am I to do son? Where am I to go and who am I to talk to? There’s no comfort in my life, my bed, or my heart. ’”
The air hissed from Angie’s lungs but Seth continued, oblivious to her distress.
“I remember I uttered some useless words of hollow comfort, but they did nothing for my father and the next day as I left him to go to work,
“ He glanced down and saw my mother struggled with some intense, overwhelming pain, and he was deathly afraid he’d somehow killed her. Mom’s hand flew to her chest and she gasped out his name. A couple of minutes later, when both could finally speak, Dad noticed a warm feeling stealing over his chest, as if a vessel that had been partly emptied was once again being refilled with a liquid that warmed and soothed like a good cognac, for she too had given him her soul. Mom had silently called out his name and had taken his soul back in to herself.”
“Wow,” said Angie , as Seth paused. Paul leaned back in the booth, his arms crossed defensively before him. He clearly didn’t believe a word of it
“And I thought you were a sane, rational man .”
“Paul, shut up!” exclaimed Angie. “And...?”
“Later, when they were calmer , they spoke about it. My father, always the skeptic, didn’t really believe that it happened and wrote off the pain in his chest as some sort of fluke during lovemaking. But that evening as my mother returned to her dorm room, my father felt a strange pang in his breast as if he couldn’t bear for her to apart from him. Mom whirled about and gave him a halfhearted wave from the downstairs landing, a strange expression flitting over her face. That night a soft despair settled over him and all he could do was think of her, visualizing her stretched out upon her narrow bed, eyes fastened upon the ceiling as she fantasized about him.
“ Suddenly Dad realized that part of her was in him, and he was in her. It was almost as if some sort of telepathy had instantly developed between the two. When she entered a room he didn’t have to turn around to instinctively know she was there; he could feel it by the warmth in his chest and the glow in his heart.”
“You have got to be kidding,” said Paul disgustedly.
“I wish I were, and it’s that unbreakable bond between my mother and father that finally killed him.”
“What ?” gasped Angie, her dark brown eyes widening.
“It’s true. When I was twenty-four my mother was diagnosed with ovarian cancer. From the time of her diagnosis to her death, only a scant five weeks elapsed. My father had no time to prepare himself for her death and upon her passing sank into a deep depression. I myself was too aggrieved to understand that my father needed help. One day, four months later, when I returned home after an evening of drinking and carousing with my buddies in an effort to forget the memory of my mother’s frail face and wasted body, I saw my father hunched over in his comfortable old chair where he’d watch TV beside my mother when she was alive. He had aged ten years in those four months, his hair turning prematurely white even though he was only fifty years old.
“ He sat in the chair with a picture album spread open upon his knees and scanned photographs of our family. I remember kneeling down to watch his fingers caress a worn and cherished photograph of my mother; one that had been taken in 1967 right after he’d met her. The sadness in his eyes was so pathetic that I wanted to cry at his obvious despair.”
“ ‘She’s gone now,’ he said to me, as if I didn’t realize my own mother was dead. ‘I know,’ I answered, and reached out a hand to pat his thin knee.”
“ ‘There’s no more warmth,’ he moaned. ‘When she died she took half my soul with her and I can’t exist on this earth without her; without the other half of my soul. What am I to do son? Where am I to go and who am I to talk to? There’s no comfort in my life, my bed, or my heart. ’”
The air hissed from Angie’s lungs but Seth continued, oblivious to her distress.
“I remember I uttered some useless words of hollow comfort, but they did nothing for my father and the next day as I left him to go to work,
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