It is possible to die. Laura thinks, suddenly, of how she - how anyone - can make a choice like that... It could, she thinks, be deeply comforting; it might feel so free: to simply go away. To say to them all, I couldn't manage, you had no idea; I didnt' want to try anymore. There might, she thinks, be a dreadful beauty in it., like an ice field, or a desert in early morning. She could go, as it were, into that other landscape; she could leave them all behind... in this battered world... saying to one another and to anyone who asks, We thought she was all right, we thought her sorrows were ordinary ones. We had no idea.
The Hours by Michael Cunningham "Mrs. Brown"

Fear no more the heat o' the sun
Nor the furious winter's rages;
Thou thy worldly task hast done,
Home art gone, and ta'en thy wages;
Golden lads and girls all must,
As chimney-sweepers, come to dust.

Fear no more the frown o' the great;
Thou art past the tyrant's stroke:
Care no more to clothe and eat;
To thee the reed is as the oak:
The sceptre, learning, physic, must
All follow this, and come to dust.

Fear no more the lightning-flash,
Nor the all-dreaded thunder-stone;
Fear not slander, censure rash;
Thou hast finished joy and moan;
All lovers young, all lovers must
Consign to thee, and come to dust.

No exorciser harm thee!
Nor no witchcraft charm thee!
Ghost unlaid forbear thee!
Nothing ill come near thee!
Quiet consummation have;
And renowned be thy grave!

William Shakespeare
Cymbeline, Act IV, Scene 2.
lines spoken by Guiderius and Arviragus

Genesis

A routine medical check-up on a routine day in the lives of the newly-weds brought with it the bold confirmation of parent-hood. The year was 1955. The exact month is today, unknown. But what is known is the following, recounted by the woman who bore the child, gave him life and nurtured him to the very best of her ability, in spite of hardships and suffering and sorrow. It is, perhaps, a secret that should not have been made known, but it has been released, has been told, and has never been forgotten. It is now being recorded for others to know at a time when the days draw rapidly to an end.

These are the “secrets” that will no longer inflict pain on the “primaries”. These are the “secrets” which now will not be buried with those who bore them and suffered with them and because of them… in silence. As the last in the line of victims breathes countable breaths, death takes away the final character and gives life to the Truth that, for 51 years, yearned to be set free. As the end of days brings peaceful repose to the soul of the final survivor, the vessel that has held the kinetic energies of pain and suffering burst. The pain that has been contained and concealed is scattered, in fragments, out to the ether to dissipate in the light of Creation. Now body, mind and soul are released, set free… in and at Peace.

As it begins, the personalization of the one who “sired” me will remain un-named. Not worthy of a name, nor the gift of immortality by mention or note of that by which he was and would be known, “he” will be referred to by the word “sire” and the letter “S.” Horses “sire” colts, cows “sire” calves, dogs “sire” puppies. It is a base and basic fact – a course of Nature. It does not need to be learned or taught. It does not indicate an ability to “father” or to be a “father”. It simply is an action which creates a new “being”. Furthermore, the use of the word “he” in reference to “him” is merely a default to the masculine pronoun only for the sake of differentiating that parent from my Mother. Were it at all possible to use a neutral reference and maintain differentiation, I would do so. For now, for this writing, I utilize what is immediately available, at my disposal, what remains in my mind at present. That said… I shall refer to the one who “sired” me as “S.”. “S.” will also allow the reader the freedom to complete the reference with what-ever letters become appropriate.

Mama’s heart was a-flutter with unbridled joy as she got into the car that day. She was newly-wed and today, it was confirmed that yet another rich dream of hers had become a reality. Today, she was not only “wife”, today she was “Mother” as well! She was, as she would recount, ecstatic in her happiness! It was 1955. WWII was well part of history. The Korean War was done. New times were coming and with them, new life… the new life of her first child. As S. drove the car along what was then, the neat and tree-lined streets, Mama, no longer able to retrain her exuberance, opened her heart to tell of the consummation of their vows. The car came to a sudden and abrupt halt! The gears thrown “park” right there, on the street, the car stood as a symbol of what was to follow… as the vehicle stopped violently, so the real violence in Mama’s life began. As it was recounted, S. turned to face her glaringly. With the fires of Hell burning in his eyes, he yelled at her with the power of napalm:

“How could you be so stupid?!? I thought I married a woman with brains!”

The car lurched forward, tyres screeched and the sound of the straining engine of the careening vehicle was the only sound to be heard. Mama sat silently, with-drawing and internalizing all emotions… her blissful joy of knowing that with-in her, she carried the new life she’d hoped and prayed for, her sadness, knowing that her spouse, her mate, her husband, the “father” of this child was angrily rejecting both her and the child to come, and her anger, that she should be accused and held solely responsible for having created this new life – this child. As the green Ford sedan sped through the streets, Mama crossed her arms lightly across her abdomen, rested her head on the window and in outward silence, cried, internally. What was expected to bring her boundless happiness would now bring her… what? She didn’t know. All that she could know for certain was that the driver of this car, the one who “sired” her child, was angry, furious, raging… gone mad. Already, he hated the unborn child… already.

The car pulled up to the front door of the 3-storey house in which they’d taken a top-floor apartment. It came to a stop just long enough for her to get out and close the door behind her and, once again, tyres screeched as the engine roared, gravel flew into the air and Mama was left alone, standing at the front door. S. was gone, in a fury.

They’d been married mere months. The records of the honey-moon weren’t even quite old enough to be “mementoes”. It was still Winter. It was the beginning of a brand new year. It was 1955. In the months that followed, Mama would sit, quietly and alone in the 3-room apartment at the top of the stairs. As she’d recount in later years, she’d fold her arms across her enlarged belly, tenderly caressing the little life within. She’d gently rock to and fro, side to side, and she’d whisper, “Don’t worry. You still have me, I still have you, and I love you.” The words were to assure her unborn child that in spite of the turmoil that raged outside the safety of the womb, this child, this new life, was indeed cherished.The sperm donor who had made this child was gone and away most of the time. S. ran to his mommie leaving wife and unborn child alone. That is how most of the following 9 months were to be. But in their solitude, their time together, alone, Mother always assured her baby… “I love you”. What was to follow would prove: her baby heard her words.

Winter had finally passed and had become Spring and Spring had become the Summer of 1955. August was almost at an end. It was the night of the 29th. It was “time”. A new day was coming, a new date was at the horizon and with it all, a new life was about to begin. After season seasons spent mostly alone, Mama was to see her dream become reality… to see her companion come to “be”… to see her child be born. Now, when S. would leave her to herself as he rushed to be with his “mommie”, to whom he was and would forever be tethered, Mama would have the company and companionship of her child, her first-born, her son. But right now, at this moment, it was time to get to Cornwall! Mama was in labour! Her baby was on the way!

5:23am. 30 August 1955. I took my first breath of air. As I’d be told many years later, as was customary, I was cleaned and made “presentable” and brought, by the Nurse, to my Mom. There, actually in her arms, I was quite content. Then came the moment to be held by what some refer to as “the proud father”. S. took me in his arms, uttered a sound or 2 and I gulped a deep breath, releasing it with what was to be the very first of my many years of shrieks and tears of fear and sorrow. The next breath was not forth-coming. I wasn’t inhaling. I lay in S.’s arms, my face and body becoming deeper shades of blue, depleted of oxygen. Instinctively, it seemed that I already knew the hatred that had spewed from the one who held me and I was, in my first moments of life, making the only attempt I knew how, to end it. S., wanting no responsibility for either life or death of his “child”, this “burden” (as he would later tell me, repeatedly, I always was to him) passed me to my Mother. Once in her arms, my little lungs sucked gulps of air, the blue baby became the little pink bundle that only moments before left her arms. I was quiet, I was calm… I was safe… I was loved. But I was not free from the danger of hatred, nor was I safe from attack, onslaught, barrages of beatings.

The year was 1955. WWII and the Korean War were over. But for this new little life, the next war began.

Time is not always kind to those of us who pass through entirely too much of it. Even thought it does not erase all events and memories of those events, Time can distort the actual dates and sometimes, details of said events. However, in its cruelty. Time may also preserve the memories, and eeven details of our most dreadful and terrorizing of life’s moments. The chronology following is only at present, a work in progress. The journey backward is not an easy one. Heading into the mirror image of one’s existence is interesting but oft-times tedious. Months and years blend at times and days, dates, events… milestones, as they were, appear, disappear, relocate, remove. But as the years are listed, the best efforts to remain truly factual are employed.

These are the days of truths… As breaths are counted and days blend into nothing more than Time, these are the gifts given to compile the past that has haunted. Each moment become an opportunity to release, in fragments, the facts, the memories, the recollections, the horrors, the terrors, the nightmares that have tortured my mind and soul every second that I have lived. These days, now countable to the end, are the opportunity to cease the screaming voices within by turning them loose into Creation. Now is the moment of all moments when the howling of a soul beaten and tortured, ripped and torn, trampled and shredded can be heard in the light of days and the darkness of night – now, by the World. No longer imprisoned within me, I purge my over-burdened soul, I release my heart and spirit, and I breathe “Life” into these Truths so that they will survive my death.

These are the days that bring the end of days. With this, a feeble but effective liberation of long immured dread, I will, at long last, find the elusive Peace for which I, in body, mind, heart, soul and spirit, yearned all through my existence in this Creation. Once complete, I can finally close my eyes, count-down my breaths, end the counting of days, passing of second, and calmly… drift away… to sleep.