When it Rings Will You Answer?

One and One and One is Three

Archive for November 2012

“My Baby You’ll Be”

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She remembered the first time she found her son, Samuel, crying in his room, heartbroken, not understanding why he felt so much pain inside. He was only six and had just lost Timothy the First, his goldfish of two weeks to the cruel fate of death (this event would play out again and again from Timothy the Second straight on through to Timothy the Eighth). He lifted his face from his pillow and he looked up to her, eyes filled with tears, and he asked her why god would want to take Timothy from him? Why would god want him to hurt so badly inside? Her heart shattered for him in that moment. She knew he was special. She knew he felt everything at an amplified frequency that so few in this cold world were capable of. It was his gift, but she knew it could just as easily destroy him. She had to tread carefully with him, but she was able to take comfort in knowing that she could heal his wounds with a simple stroke of the cheek, a kiss to his forehead, reassuring hug, and reciting the line from his favourite story, “As long as I’m living, my baby you’ll be.”

He was sixteen when his first “true love” broke his heart. Holly Reynolds was the prettiest girl in the whole school. She had lived next door, and they’d grown up best friends, but their paths diverged once high school reared its terrifying halls their way. She was blossoming into a beautiful young woman while he was the same boy who still wanted to push her into the snowbanks and laugh all the way home. He would always wait for her at her doorstep to apologize and kiss her on the cheek, but on that fateful day she had enough. She was through with his childish behaviour,  she told him, and she was going to start dating Steven Rogers who treated her with respect. He begged her to reconsider but she would have none of it. He managed to hold himself together long enough to get through his own front door. He threw his bags to the ground and tossed his shoes in the air hitting his mother who was at the table sharing a cup of tea with his sister, MacKenzie. He ran by her without a word and buried his head firmly into his pillow. His mother knew it was time to jump into action. A stroke of his cheek, a kiss to his forehead, and a reassuring hug as she told him, “As long as I’m living, my baby you’ll be.” Even at sixteen, those simple actions and stolen words meant the world to him and deep in his heart he believed them.

He grew up always believing. He credited that belief in everything he did. He became wildly successful. Married a beautiful woman. Had a beautiful baby girl. His life seemed the picture of perfection. Any small misstep or major misfortune along the way was easily fixed, and it was all because of her.

He was thirty-two when his mother came to visit him unexpectedly. She sat him down and took his hand. She told him she’d been feeling tired for the past couple of months. She thought at first it was just the aging process. Life catching up with her and such. His sister Mackenzie insisted she see a doctor. As a family they had always been wary of medical professionals, but she decided to heed her daughter’s advice. Samuel could see in his mother’s face a calm and peaceful acceptance. He knew what she was about to tell him and he was not ready to hear it. He stood up and turned towards to window. He was searching for answers in the trees, but he came up empty. His mother waited patiently for him to turn back towards her. She knew he wasn’t going to handle the remainder of what she had to say to him well. To her surprise, he sat down and she saw that same calm and peaceful acceptance exuding from her son’s face. She regrouped and continued explaining to him what had happened. She told him about all the tests and doctor’s appointments. She explained to him that she kept it from him because she worried he would become too distracted by it all. She didn’t want him to worry himself into sickness like she knew he would have.  She had gotten the results about a week ago. She looked him in the eye and told him she was dying. Tears had welled up in both their eyes. Samuel stroked his mother’s cheek, kissed her forehead, pulled her close, and told her, “As long as I’m living, my mommy you’ll be.”

After his mother passed, Samuel felt lost, but he never stopped believing in her. He felt her presence at every turn. He found strength in memories. He saw love in his wife and daughter’s eyes. He knew that he needed to be that same source of comfort his mother was to him, to his wife and daughter, and he now knew that he could be. He came home from work with a gift for his daughter. He presented to her, her first goldfish, Timothy the Ninth. She was ecstatic. His wife looked at him with a subtle hint of, “You’re dealing with Timothy the Tenth.” He smiled with an understanding as he pulled both his wife, daughter and Timothy the Ninth in for a family hug. He had never been happier than in that moment. They were a family built on the strongest foundation of love imaginable, and he always credited the love and strength his mother had instilled in him.


Written by josiahh

November 25, 2012 at 12:21 PM

Pen 15 Club

with 4 comments

There is just something about a great pen. I find that ‘creatively’ I am at my best when I have found a pen that I love. I am at my worst when I am using a pen that I hate. A bad pen leads to bad writing. I am currently writing this with a terrible pen. If I decide to type it up, I apologize in advance and you can rest easy knowing that I am thoroughly ashamed of myself for doing so.

I am dead serious though when it comes to pens. I hate this pen. I hate it so much. Look at what hating this pen has caused me to produce. DAMN YOU LOUSY “UNI 1.0 JETSTREAM” PEN! Before this awfulness I was using this fan-freaking-tastic felt tip pen. I think it was a Pilot. With that pen I was on the verge of writing the next great American novel (from a Canadian perspective, of course). Sadly, my Pilot died and with it, so too did The Great Gatsby Jr.. I’m telling you folks, Gatsby Jr. would have been my 1984.

I suppose you are asking yourself two questions right now:

1. Why am I still reading this?


2. Why doesn’t this jackass just go out and buy a new pen?

Well friend, I can’t help you with your first question. What you choose to do on the internet is between you and your ISP. As for your second question, I am glad you asked. You see, I don’t buy pens. I find them. It is part of my ‘process,’ and yes, I am aware of how unbelievably douchey it is to talk about your process. I’m sorry. Pens are a luck of the draw, karmic, kismet,  ka sort of deal for me. I love finding them. I don’t steal them, but if they have been left behind somewhere, they become mine. When I find a pen that is amazing, there is no limit to the awesome that will flow (I use ‘awesome’ VERY loosely). The worst though, is when I find a pen that looks cool and then turns out to be poop like the one I am currently writing this with. You see the results? This is damning evidence, people. Again, I am sorry.

I had planned on trying to write something meaningful today before work, but I fear that it simply is not in the cards. Instead, you get this and now I am going to sit on my couch and watch “Brave.” I don’t care who knows it. You are judging me through your computer screen right now, I can feel it, but I can also deal with it. So it goes.

Love always,


Written by josiahh

November 15, 2012 at 10:50 AM