Friend John

…music video?

I was just introduced to this band via Magiska, my favorite blog on the interwebs…and they are absolutely brilliant. Check them out! http://magiska.vlsweb.net.br/?p=10951

Sunflowers - A Short Story by John Haas

Sunflowers

by  John Haas (edited by Akiva Cohen)

A new sun rose over the solitary house, halfway illuminating trees and casting their shadows over the countryside. The sunflowers were starting their cycle of staring into the sky, as in the distance a rooster heralded the new day. 

Across town, Susy Marks was just waking up, getting herself dressed for school.  Groggy eyed, she brushed her teeth and hair, and stumbled down the stairs for breakfast with her parents.  Cereal finished, Susy picked up her backpack, checked for the pencils she would need.  It was Wednesday, and Mrs. Erikson had told them they would be writing letters to the elderly.  Susy was almost jumping as she held her mother’s hand, standing outside in the early dawn, waiting for her bus to arrive. 

“Dear. Mr. Simon, I hope you are ok. Today’s gonna be so pretty…”

Seventy years had taken their toll on Tom Simon, and despite the morning’s beauty he sighed as he turned sad eyes to the mist rising off the nearby pond.  Another day, simply another day. That was how Mr. Simon viewed the dawn.

“…I wonder what it is like to get old. Mommy tells me it’s not fun.”

Sitting up in his bed, Mr. Simon gazed out at the pond before finally rising to start his day.  He could no longer sleep as long as he used to.  With careful and precise steps, Mr. Simon wandered slowly to his kitchen and picked up the plate of sunflower seeds that would consume much of his day.

Taking a seat on the weathered rocking chair on his front porch, he held the first seed up to the light, eying its imperfections and feeling its ridges with his wrinkled fingers before popping it into his mouth. Spitting the shell into a bowl on the ground, he leaned back and picked up another seed.

“…daddy told me to never grow old. Is it really as bad as he told me?”

Another sunflower seed fell into the plate, and another and another, the soft ‘thlick’ of shell after shell hitting the bowl marking the hours of his day.  This was Mr. Simon’s life, had been for the fifteen years since he retired. Seed followed by seed, shell by shell. He knew this was probably not healthy, but having seen enough years Mr. Simon was not too concerned. While he did not yearn for death, he did not fear it, either.  After such a long isolation, it would be a welcome change.

Hours passed as Mr. Simon spat sunflower seeds and stared into the distant countryside through heavy lidded eyes. The sun, momentarily atop the world, shone more brilliantly than Mr. Simon would have expected on an October day.  Another seed fell into the bowl, but Mr. Simon ignored the echo. Dust was rising in the distance; something was happening.

Mr. Simons interest was piqued as the cloud of dust began reflecting light off metal. A car was moving towards his house. People seldom ventured this far out into the countryside, and it was even rarer that a car stopped at Mr. Simon’s house.

The muscles in Mr. Simon’s face tightened and his pupils widened as the car approached … and passed. Mr. Simon lowered his eyes, picked up a sunflower seed and began the pattern again. Sunflower shell after sunflower shell ‘thlick’ed into the bowl until Mr. Simon fell asleep.

“…are you lonely Mr. Simon?”

Mr. Simon started awake at the sound of the voice, eyes widening as he took in the mailman standing above him. “I’m sorry to disturb you, uh, Mr. Simon,” the mailman said, holding out a letter. “I would have left this in your mail box, only, well, I couldn’t find it.  Sorry.”

Mr. Simon opened his mouth, and uttered the first words he had spoken in what seemed like forever. Somehow, he made them intelligible. “Are… are you, sure you have the right house?”

Without much pause the mailman responded. “This is 31445 Johnson Street, right? Tom Simon?”

Mr. Simon’s eyes were reddening as he stared at the impossible white envelope.  “Yes sir. That’s me.”  Who would be writing him? 

The mailman paused and looked back down at the letter.  “Well here you go, then.  Again, sorry to wake you.” Mr. Simon could only nod as he focused on the letter, already forgetting that the mailman was there.

Running his hands over the envelope once, twice, as if to ensure it really existed, Mr. Simon studied the shaky handwriting of his address as if for a clue as to who had sent it.  The unfamiliar return address, all that was printed in the upper left corner, wasn’t much help. The slowly receding sound of the mailman’s car was replaced by the soft rip of paper as Mr. Simon cautiously opened up the envelope, unfolding the paper within with trembling hands. Mr. Simon could barely contain his excitement as he opened the first letter he had received in years.

“Dear Mr. Simon…

Mr. Simon’s eyes began to tear from the strain. He stared with anticipation into the letter. His face unmoving, the sunflower seeds in his lap forgotten, he read further.

“…never get old…”

Mr. Simon giggled, as close to a laugh as he could manage.  After so long, he could barely remember what a laugh was.

“…is you as lonely as dad says old people are…”

Mr. Simon’s eyes, watering from the strain, reddened further.  He had not blinked in the minutes reading the letter had taken him, but his eyes were not the source of his pain.  The bowl rang with the soft splash of tears.

“…write me back, and with much love,

Susy Marks.”

Birds chirped in the distance and while Mr. Simon had been lost to the passage of time, the sun had begun its descent. Deeply touched by its contents, he finally closed the letter.  Levering himself out of the rocker, he made his way inside, to eat, and to think.

*    *    *

Beside the leftovers of his dinner sat a typewriter, the dust blown off it still lingering in the air. It emitted another sound long forgotten. Frail hands slowly typing out the letter. Slowly but surely they released a storm of thoughts, long restricted. The buzzing of the fluorescent light above Mr. Simon’s head flowed into the sound of the typewriter, as the sounds of an owl on the nearby pear tree blurred into the background.

The lamp above his bed had become the only light in the house. Putting down the letter from Susy and picking up his own response, he began to read it to himself.

“…yes, it is lonely when you grow old. I wish I only could be young again like you and experience all the things that make life so beautiful again from young eyes…”

Mr. Simon forsook his schedule. On an ordinary night he would have been long asleep by the time he gave his letter a final approving nod. He had spent hours polishing and fixing his perfect letter with an almost renewed spirit. Exhausted, he placed the letter on the table underneath his lamp and, with a tug of the string and a single sigh, extinguished the light.

The house lay silent. Its creaks and groans echoed quietly down its hallways, the rocking chair outside empty of its usual inhabitant. Sunflower seeds on a plate untouched and unwanted.

“Your letter means so much to me. More than you can understand for now. But some day, you will understand. Stay young, and beautiful as I’m sure you are. I’ve had a hard life, I have gotten lonely with age, but my life has been made so much sweeter by your words. Thank you so much. Please write me back!

Sincerely,
Mr. Simon.”

A still figure lay on the bed, legs curled, gaunt face motionless.   And smiling.