by J.E. Bolton
My doorbell rings. Who could be visiting me this morning? Don’t debt collectors take Christmases off from being jerks? They have all day tomorrow to do that. I look through the peephole. It was my sister: my I-married-a-senator sister who always felt she was better than me. I am stunned. We hadn’t spoken in years.
How odd! Or was it?
I open the door. “Sarah,” I say shocked. “What brings you to the slums, as you‘ve so eloquently put it?”
Sarah smirks. “I woke up this morning and felt like coming here. If you‘re busy I can come by later.”
“I’m glad you stopped by,” I say before shutting the door. “So, I suppose I’ll see you in another five years.”
Sarah extends her hands toward me. “Stephen, wait a second,” she says evidently concerned. “I know I haven’t been there for you but it’s like something came over me. Last night, I had a dream you were in a casket and it made me realize how much you mean to me. That‘s why I would like for you to come to our house later today for Christmas dinner.”
I shake my head and smile. Me in my casket. What are the odds?
“But I don’t understand,” I say confused. “What’s come over you?”
She smiles gently. “Just please be there today,” she begs. “Do you promise?”
I smile gently in return. “Sure. I‘ll be there.”
Sarah nods her head before walking away. “Good,” she says. “I’ll see you then.”
Despite the night before being just a dream, I begin to understand what Thomas and Catherine Cole told me. Love has to start within each of us. It’s there, and we are the keys to unlocking it. We always have been. The very thing we look for most in this world is within us all along, and nothing can change that: not life, not death, and not even all the hate in the world.
Why? Because love is indeed the greatest power of all.
And speaking of keys, the necklace is still around my neck, and the key dangles wonderfully from it.
Sarah’s visit isn’t my only Christmas surprise. I look down and notice a wooden box sitting on my front doorstep. It’s an ornate cherry wood box with a note attached to the side that reads, MERRY CHRISTMAS, STEPHEN. I pick it up and carry it inside. Carefully, I sit it on the coffee table, sit down in front of it and study it carefully.
The latch refuses to open, and there’s a reason. It’s locked and requires a key in order to open it; a key much like mine. I insert it carefully into the keyhole, turn the key and it opens. I rummage through every part of the box. Tears fill my eyes as I finally understand another great truth.
Now, you’re probably wondering about the contents of the box. I would also safely bet you’re wondering who Thomas and Catherine Cole are, and how they fit into the grand scheme of everything. I‘m not saying celestial beings as angels and spirits exist, but let‘s just say certain things don‘t necessarily have to have a reason. They just are.
Which brings me to this point, and I will allow you, the precious reader, to draw your own conclusions. According to my biological family tree, my grandmother was Martha Ann, who married someone named Thaddeus Fowler. Martha’s parents were none other than Thomas and Catherine Cole.
Well, what do you know? It looks like I didn’t have to go very far to look for the love I needed. It looks like on that Christmas Eve night when all hope seemed lost, the love finally found me.
It always has and it always will.
NOT THE END.
JUST THE BEGINNING.
