The Things He Loved - Kaye Doiron

His book collection sits in the wine cellar gathering mold and dust, where it has been untouched for going on two years. He chose each book with such care; he remembers the first acquisition found in Israel on his second or third assignment there. The thick red tapestries, the dusty, smoky air, the small, crowded spaces, the small bearded salesman who spoke to him in Arabic only even though his English was beautiful. The weight of the book, the ruggedness of the spine, it sits so well in his hands. It all comes rushing back, like the memories of a love affair, those first nights spent together wrapped up in each other’s perfect reflections of self. He jabs at the fire. He will be leaving on another assignment soon. Part of him hopes it will be his last, that he will die there. He is so very tired. The cold does not relinquish, his hair and beard are covered in snow. His fingers ache with it as he caresses the neck of his guitar and he imagines Danny sitting here by the fire with him. There are so many things he should be teaching his son, his beautiful blue eyed Danny boy, the son he dreamed of on all of those lonely nights in the field. He dreamed him and he was there, suddenly nestled in the arms, at the breast of the love of his life, his light, his beauty, his wild mare. His memories betray him, he sees Bella, a cell for cell replica of her mother, standing by the sea, the mountains behind her, her back to everything but the deep blue that calls her, her white blonde hair blowing, a distance in her gaze. And of course, her twin Sean. Sean, if he is honest with himself, the real reason he had to go. He remembers the last morning he touched their mother. He remembers her neck in his hands. He remembers Sean standing in the corner with his hockey stick and a sociopathic empty stare in his eyes and in that moment he saw that he had created another monster. In that moment he knew he had to leave all of the things that he loved. He sees Danny venturing down to the cellar, timidly. He envisions him caressing each and every book, reading each journal entry, learning about his father in these books. And he is comforted. He sits the guitar down next to him and lies down next to the fire. His gaze turns to the millions of stars that cover the mountain range like a thick blanket. Maybe tonight he will stop breathing.