Residing Dreams: Chapter 31
The remnants of summer continued to dwell in the atmosphere longer than ever before. I lived life to the fullest, and I cherished every moment. I had gained much more than a new friend this summer—I had established newfound hope, a place of hidden opportunities, a first love, and the chance to be…well, free. I could no longer feel the great dread and worry hanging over me, and I felt like I could be truly and completely happy once more.I soon came across another discovery relating to Casimir. This one, to my gratitude, was not dark as other secrets had been. In fact, it was actually beautiful, in a sense.
Dear Mother,
A new, albeit tiny beginning lay before me. This should come to me as a sort of reassurance, in a sense. After such tragic endings, you’d think that any beginning would give me even the slightest bit of hope. Alas, that is not as true as I wish it was. You see, Father gave me this journal a few months ago, and I decided to start writing in it now. It might be pleasing to fill up the empty, crisp pages of this lovely book. Hence, what I am writing now, this first entry, can be interpreted as a new beginning.
Even so, I still feel quite melancholy. There’s nothing uplifting, encouraging, or positive that I have to say. What is there in my life but sadness, loss, and gloom? Well, there’s you. Too bad you aren’t alive. If you were, then perhaps I would be writing of happy things and thinking happy thoughts. Maybe I’d be a happy person, and my father would be too. But that’s not how life is. I’m a very sad fellow.
Funnily enough, I decided to write to you, in an effort to cheer up even a tiny bit. I am not sure of how that is working out so far. Still, if I am going to further disgrace my masculinity as to keep a diary, then a better have a solid reason for it. And the reason is that I want to be able to talk to you. If I have anything to say, then I will confide it in you, because you are the only one who will ever listen. You were the only one who ever cared. I may be foolish, and I may be speaking to no one right now, but at least I can pretend that I am heard.
I know I’m too old to have imaginary friends, but you are not merely a product of my imagination. You are my mother, and I love you dearly. I haven’t been able to say those three words to anyone in a long time. I want you to hear me say them again, because I wish to fill the emptiness which surrounds me. I love you. Yes, I know I’m being repetitive, but it’s okay to repeat something important, right?
Anyways, I am getting tired now, so I think I will rest for a bit. I can’t promise that I’ll write every day, but as much as I need to. As much as you want me to. But I promise, you’ll hear from me again, even if I don’t hear from you. With love,Casimir I envisioned Casimir writing those very words. I pictured a poignant expression on his face as he intently put his frozen heart onto paper. Yet, in the midst of the gloominess, I could imagine a flicker of hope reside in his eyes as he gently gazed out the window of his room, searching for an answer in the sky or trees. Since then, he had learned that hope was much closer than he previously thought, and he could look within himself and others to find it. The second entry was a month later. I absorbed it eagerly and carefully.
April 5, 1989
Dear Mother, Why do birds chirp so merrily? How can they sing so happily, despite all of the pain and suffering that goes on in the world? Sometimes, when I’m ill-humoured (which is a good deal of the time), I deem all of their noise to be quite annoying. It feels like they will never be able to share in my sorrows, until they get shot by a hunter or eaten by a cat. As I write this to you now, I am lying in bed and my room is dim. The doctor came not too long ago, and he took a sample of my blood. Did I ever mention how much I absolutely hate needles? Some things will always hurt, no matter how much you get used to them. That’s how I feel about your death. I can’t get over it, even though it’s been years. Well, at least I’m not the only dweller. My father is still sad about it also. Well, I guess no matter how much of a coward he is, I still can’t blame him. After all, you were his first and only love who brightened his world. He was your husband longer than I was your son, so maybe he has a greater right to mourn than I do. No, that’s not a fair way to look at it. I remember how you told me that when you were a little girl, you had a kitty that you loved dearly. When she died, you were very sad, but eventually you were able to recall all of the happy memories of her. But the thing is, though, you matter much more to me than a little kitty cat. But what you said still made sense. I guess the truth is, everybody has the right to mourn. It’s a personal thing, and no one will quite understand just how you feel when you shed tears at the loss of a loved one. They may be able to relate to your sadness, but they will never truly know what it’s like to be you. That’s how I feel. But somehow I know that there is someone who understands—you.With love,Casimir I came to another entry, which was a bit more recent.
May 7, 1989
Dear Mother, Sometimes I wonder if there’s a God. I’ve found myself thinking about this a lot lately. The thing is, when I cry out in pain on my most desperate of days, there doesn’t seem to be an answer. Only the resounding echo of my grief. I don’t understand it. I just feel so alone, and when I look at the sky through my window, all I see are clouds.
Then again, if there’s no God, then there are no angels either. If that’s true, then how come I still see you in my dreams? I’ve held onto the notion that you’re an angel now, and sometimes I can almost picture you being present here. You’re all I have left of what once was.
Father hardly ever comes to visit. That only makes things all the more depressing. As I write this now, my tears stain the page. It feels like this journal is the only place where love dwells. Everything else is so gloomy.
I felt a few little tears in my eyes. I read this journal entry over a few times, my heart moved by his words. They were pessimistic and doubtful, but at the same time, they were loving and hopeful, too. The last line touched me, and I was shocked. “A miracle,” I whispered to myself. Fate and destiny had worked together all along.
July 3, 1989 Dear Mother,I met a girl last night. Her name is Essie Miracle, and she wandered into my room unexpectedly. How’s that for a first encounter? She’s very pretty, inquisitive, and a bit shy at first, but after a while, she told me about herself. She seemed very surprised to have come across me, and I was a little surprised myself. But maybe I had a feeling that this summer would be different than most. Perhaps it’s something called hope.Anyways, I found out that Essie is attending The Leaps and Bounds Day Camp and Club for Girls, where you used to go. Essie is the daughter of Shawn Miracle, who is friends with my father. Essie is staying at our house for the summer. I hope that we can get to know each other, and become friends. I don’t really know what it’s like to have a friend, but why not welcome new experiences?You can probably tell that I’m not my usual pessimistic self. The truth is, I’m really excited about getting to know this interesting new girl from a far away land. Well, the reason why I’m intrigued by Essie is because I see a part of you whenever I look at her. I didn’t know that living people could be angels. But maybe this just goes to show that perhaps you are truly alive in spirit after all. There had to be someone watching over me all of these years. I love you and may God bless you.With love,Casimir Just then, I heard a sneeze. I turned to see Casimir standing in the doorway. He slowly walked over, his footsteps not making a sound. I was a bit embarrassed that he had caught me snooping around his room and reading his diary. My face reddened. “I’m really sorry,” I said. “I just--” I began to say. Casimir whispered, “It’s okay. Don’t worry about it.” He didn’t look angry or upset, but a bit nervous. I put the journal down. Casimir stared at me with curious eyes. To me surprise, he chuckled. “I guess you deem it’s odd that I keep a diary,” he said nonchalantly, with a half smile. “Most boys don’t do that. But I guess typicality isn’t so important, now is it? That’s what you taught me,” Casimir murmured, his voice as calm as a river. “I didn’t mean to pry. I was just curious,” I tried to explain. Casimir nodded. “That’s fine. My house is your house,” he said.Then, I remembered something. “Your father told me that when I met him for the first time. But he also said that he deeply regretted it wasn’t a home,” I recalled.“Well,” Casimir said with a smile, “I reckon you’ve changed that.” He reached out to touch my hand. His touch made me melt on the inside.“I think it’s wonderful that you write letters to your mother in the journal. It’s like letting her know that you’ll never forget her, no matter what,” I commented, changing the subject.“She was the only person who would actually read my letters,” Casimir replied. “I don’t think my father would want to,” he added.“No, I think he would,” I said honestly. “Maybe you should try writing to him sometime,” I suggested, and I hoped that I wasn’t sounding too pushy. Casimir nodded, but let the subject drop. “Anyways, you can read the rest of my entries, if you want. I don’t really mind if you see what I wrote,” he said. I didn’t refuse the offer. “Thank you for letting me into your life,” I replied. “Thanks for helping me appreciate life,” Casimir responded.I sat on the bed and continued to read. I read about his accounts of our summer through Casimir’s eyes. I felt as if I were looking into his heart and mind.
I was in Casimir’s room, while he was taking a bath. I looked around with great interest, noticing the picture of the two of us that was on top of his nightstand. Once again, my curiosity emerged. I knew that I shouldn’t snoop around, but I had a feeling that Casimir wouldn’t really mind. I opened each of the drawers. Thankfully, there was no knife in any of them. But I did find tissues, hand sanitizer, lotion, cough drops, and pens and pencils. Nothing out of the ordinary. However, when I got to the very top drawer, I found something that caught my attention. It was a beautiful journal bound in silk paisley fabric. It smelled like the pages of the old, rare books in the library. Hesitantly, I opened up the first page. A diary entry appeared to be written. I flipped through the journal some more. Several of the pages had been filled. Haphazardly, I flipped back to the first entry. Surprisingly, the first words were not “Dear Diary,” as I would’ve expected. Instead, in precise, charming penmanship were the words, “Dear Mother”.I prompted myself to read what it said, though I felt a twinge of nervousness. Still, I proceeded. The first entry read: March 15, 1989
Dear Mother,
A new, albeit tiny beginning lay before me. This should come to me as a sort of reassurance, in a sense. After such tragic endings, you’d think that any beginning would give me even the slightest bit of hope. Alas, that is not as true as I wish it was. You see, Father gave me this journal a few months ago, and I decided to start writing in it now. It might be pleasing to fill up the empty, crisp pages of this lovely book. Hence, what I am writing now, this first entry, can be interpreted as a new beginning.
Even so, I still feel quite melancholy. There’s nothing uplifting, encouraging, or positive that I have to say. What is there in my life but sadness, loss, and gloom? Well, there’s you. Too bad you aren’t alive. If you were, then perhaps I would be writing of happy things and thinking happy thoughts. Maybe I’d be a happy person, and my father would be too. But that’s not how life is. I’m a very sad fellow.
Funnily enough, I decided to write to you, in an effort to cheer up even a tiny bit. I am not sure of how that is working out so far. Still, if I am going to further disgrace my masculinity as to keep a diary, then a better have a solid reason for it. And the reason is that I want to be able to talk to you. If I have anything to say, then I will confide it in you, because you are the only one who will ever listen. You were the only one who ever cared. I may be foolish, and I may be speaking to no one right now, but at least I can pretend that I am heard.
I know I’m too old to have imaginary friends, but you are not merely a product of my imagination. You are my mother, and I love you dearly. I haven’t been able to say those three words to anyone in a long time. I want you to hear me say them again, because I wish to fill the emptiness which surrounds me. I love you. Yes, I know I’m being repetitive, but it’s okay to repeat something important, right?
Anyways, I am getting tired now, so I think I will rest for a bit. I can’t promise that I’ll write every day, but as much as I need to. As much as you want me to. But I promise, you’ll hear from me again, even if I don’t hear from you. With love,Casimir I envisioned Casimir writing those very words. I pictured a poignant expression on his face as he intently put his frozen heart onto paper. Yet, in the midst of the gloominess, I could imagine a flicker of hope reside in his eyes as he gently gazed out the window of his room, searching for an answer in the sky or trees. Since then, he had learned that hope was much closer than he previously thought, and he could look within himself and others to find it. The second entry was a month later. I absorbed it eagerly and carefully.
April 5, 1989
Dear Mother, Why do birds chirp so merrily? How can they sing so happily, despite all of the pain and suffering that goes on in the world? Sometimes, when I’m ill-humoured (which is a good deal of the time), I deem all of their noise to be quite annoying. It feels like they will never be able to share in my sorrows, until they get shot by a hunter or eaten by a cat. As I write this to you now, I am lying in bed and my room is dim. The doctor came not too long ago, and he took a sample of my blood. Did I ever mention how much I absolutely hate needles? Some things will always hurt, no matter how much you get used to them. That’s how I feel about your death. I can’t get over it, even though it’s been years. Well, at least I’m not the only dweller. My father is still sad about it also. Well, I guess no matter how much of a coward he is, I still can’t blame him. After all, you were his first and only love who brightened his world. He was your husband longer than I was your son, so maybe he has a greater right to mourn than I do. No, that’s not a fair way to look at it. I remember how you told me that when you were a little girl, you had a kitty that you loved dearly. When she died, you were very sad, but eventually you were able to recall all of the happy memories of her. But the thing is, though, you matter much more to me than a little kitty cat. But what you said still made sense. I guess the truth is, everybody has the right to mourn. It’s a personal thing, and no one will quite understand just how you feel when you shed tears at the loss of a loved one. They may be able to relate to your sadness, but they will never truly know what it’s like to be you. That’s how I feel. But somehow I know that there is someone who understands—you.With love,Casimir I came to another entry, which was a bit more recent.
May 7, 1989
Dear Mother, Sometimes I wonder if there’s a God. I’ve found myself thinking about this a lot lately. The thing is, when I cry out in pain on my most desperate of days, there doesn’t seem to be an answer. Only the resounding echo of my grief. I don’t understand it. I just feel so alone, and when I look at the sky through my window, all I see are clouds.
Then again, if there’s no God, then there are no angels either. If that’s true, then how come I still see you in my dreams? I’ve held onto the notion that you’re an angel now, and sometimes I can almost picture you being present here. You’re all I have left of what once was.
Father hardly ever comes to visit. That only makes things all the more depressing. As I write this now, my tears stain the page. It feels like this journal is the only place where love dwells. Everything else is so gloomy.
I pour out my deepest feelings in this book, consisting of how much I love you and wish you were here. At the same time, I’ve drowning in my own sorrows, as I am a sorrowful person. But I still write letters to you in this journal to give me a sense of hope; a feeling that I am not alone. I do this even though you are gone, so it will feel like you are right here with me.
I remember how you used to read me passages from the Bible. I recall the line from 1 Corinthians 13:13, “And now these three remain: faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is love.” I haven’t been to church since you took me when I was little. I feel as if I let you down. You were a great Christian. You were the one who taught me that Jesus is my Savior and that God loves and protects all of his children. You told me about heaven, and that our loved ones who pass away will always watch over us. Can you see and hear me right now? Are you still with me?
Please, give me a sign that I’m not all alone. The darkness is surrounding me, and I’m so weak. Someday I hope I’ll see a rainbow, and for goodness and love to dwell inside of me and make me whole. I want to be free and not dread the rest of my days. There’s a little string of hope that keeps me believing and holding on. There must be a God out there; some positive superior force of love.
I often wallow in self pity and believe that things can’t get any worse, but hope still resides somewhere. Mother, you are my angel, and even though I can’t see you, I can feel you in my heart. That is what keeps me going, even now. Maybe there’ll be a miracle, and someday the sunshine will come.
With love,
Casimir
I felt a few little tears in my eyes. I read this journal entry over a few times, my heart moved by his words. They were pessimistic and doubtful, but at the same time, they were loving and hopeful, too. The last line touched me, and I was shocked. “A miracle,” I whispered to myself. Fate and destiny had worked together all along.
July 3, 1989 Dear Mother,I met a girl last night. Her name is Essie Miracle, and she wandered into my room unexpectedly. How’s that for a first encounter? She’s very pretty, inquisitive, and a bit shy at first, but after a while, she told me about herself. She seemed very surprised to have come across me, and I was a little surprised myself. But maybe I had a feeling that this summer would be different than most. Perhaps it’s something called hope.Anyways, I found out that Essie is attending The Leaps and Bounds Day Camp and Club for Girls, where you used to go. Essie is the daughter of Shawn Miracle, who is friends with my father. Essie is staying at our house for the summer. I hope that we can get to know each other, and become friends. I don’t really know what it’s like to have a friend, but why not welcome new experiences?You can probably tell that I’m not my usual pessimistic self. The truth is, I’m really excited about getting to know this interesting new girl from a far away land. Well, the reason why I’m intrigued by Essie is because I see a part of you whenever I look at her. I didn’t know that living people could be angels. But maybe this just goes to show that perhaps you are truly alive in spirit after all. There had to be someone watching over me all of these years. I love you and may God bless you.With love,Casimir Just then, I heard a sneeze. I turned to see Casimir standing in the doorway. He slowly walked over, his footsteps not making a sound. I was a bit embarrassed that he had caught me snooping around his room and reading his diary. My face reddened. “I’m really sorry,” I said. “I just--” I began to say. Casimir whispered, “It’s okay. Don’t worry about it.” He didn’t look angry or upset, but a bit nervous. I put the journal down. Casimir stared at me with curious eyes. To me surprise, he chuckled. “I guess you deem it’s odd that I keep a diary,” he said nonchalantly, with a half smile. “Most boys don’t do that. But I guess typicality isn’t so important, now is it? That’s what you taught me,” Casimir murmured, his voice as calm as a river. “I didn’t mean to pry. I was just curious,” I tried to explain. Casimir nodded. “That’s fine. My house is your house,” he said.Then, I remembered something. “Your father told me that when I met him for the first time. But he also said that he deeply regretted it wasn’t a home,” I recalled.“Well,” Casimir said with a smile, “I reckon you’ve changed that.” He reached out to touch my hand. His touch made me melt on the inside.“I think it’s wonderful that you write letters to your mother in the journal. It’s like letting her know that you’ll never forget her, no matter what,” I commented, changing the subject.“She was the only person who would actually read my letters,” Casimir replied. “I don’t think my father would want to,” he added.“No, I think he would,” I said honestly. “Maybe you should try writing to him sometime,” I suggested, and I hoped that I wasn’t sounding too pushy. Casimir nodded, but let the subject drop. “Anyways, you can read the rest of my entries, if you want. I don’t really mind if you see what I wrote,” he said. I didn’t refuse the offer. “Thank you for letting me into your life,” I replied. “Thanks for helping me appreciate life,” Casimir responded.I sat on the bed and continued to read. I read about his accounts of our summer through Casimir’s eyes. I felt as if I were looking into his heart and mind.
August 21, 1989
Essie is my sunshine. She is my rainbow girl; sent from above. She unexpectedly wandered into my room one night; a glowing figure in the darkness. Jiminy, she was so beautiful, she took my breath away.
When I am with her, everything is right, and I don't have to worry anymore. I only fear for her when I see the insecurities that she is drowning in. I want to save her, but I don't know how to swim. In fact, she's the one who is keeping me afloat to begin with.
Her dreams whisper secrets to mine, and someday I hope that our dreams can reside together. Her smile is purer than Mona Lisa's, and she is the rose in a field of daisies. I want to give Essie my heart and tell her that she is keeping me alive; truly alive.With love,Casimir I put my arm around him and warmly embraced my friend. “Well?” Casimir said, raising an eyebrow. “What do you think?”“I think I’m tearing up all over again,” I replied softly. He got me a tissue. The rays of sunshine came pouring through the room, embracing us as we embraced each other. Birds chirped sweetly outside, but this time they weren’t singing in the midst of suffering. They were crooning softly to love, restoration, and happiness; the melody becoming the serenade of the summertime.
The End
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Summary: Residing Dreams is a heartwarming tale destined to captivate and touch the souls of those who read this thought-provoking piece of literature. It is told through the eyes of Essie Miracle, an adopted adolescence who possesses creativity, kindness, beauty, and wisdom beyond her years. She was found alone in a hospital room as a baby, with but a single note attached: "Please take care of Essie, God's little miracle." It was only destiny for Shawn Miracle to hear of her mysterious appearance and adopt her as his child. They reside in the cheerful town of Pleasantville, Indiana. But it is soon realized that not everything in life is pleasant and peachy-keen. Essie's father has a secret, of which he can tell no one. However, many people see it's truth quite clearly, as does Essie. Her father has been hiding for a long time, and he lacks the confidence to openly declare the truth for fear of scorn, rejection, and shunning. When things become increasingly difficult, new opportunities soon beckon for Essie. On her unforgettable journey of life, she meets a boy who intrigues her and captures her heart, and she finds out that he has some dark antagonists of his own. As the dreams reside and reflections are pondered, it is clear that everyone faces trials and tribulations. In addition to this, each person has gifts and hopeful hope to make it through life's storms. Essie learns a multititude of lessons, and she uncovers the truth that love knows no bounds. 1 PARTICIPANT IN THIS STORY
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